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ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON    ■    CHICAGO 
ATLANTA   •    SAN    FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  •  BOMBAY  ■  CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


•  f 


ESSAYS 


ON 


MODERN   NOVELISTS 


BY 
WILLIAM   LYON   PHELPS 

M.A.  (Harvard),  Ph.D.  (Yale) 

FORMERLY   INSTRUCTOR   IN   ENGLISH   AT   HARVARD 
LAMPSON   PROFESSOR  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE  AT  YALE 

:^  3  -2-73 


THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1910 

Ail  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1910, 
By  the  M  ACM  ill  an  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  January,  1910.     Reprinted 
May,  October,  1910. 


J.  8.  Cushlng  Co.  —  UtTwiik  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


Zo  /IDs  Mite 


'FN  345 


PREFACE 

Some  of  the  essays  in  this  volume  have  appeared 
in  recent  numbers  of  various  periodicals.  The 
essays  on  "  Mark  Twain  "  and  "  Thomas  Hardy  " 
were  originally  printed  in  the  North  American  Re- 
view ;  those  on  "  Mrs.  Ward"  and  "  Rudyard  Kip- 
ling," in  the  Forum ;  those  on  "Alfred  Ollivant," 
"  Bjornstjerne  Bjornson,"  and  "  Novels  as  a  Uni- 
versity Study,"  in  the  Independent.  The  same 
magazine  contained  a  portion  of  the  present  essay 
on  "  Lorna  Doone,"  while  the  article  on  "  The 
Teacher's  Attitude  toward  Contemporary  Liter- 
ature" was  written  for  the  Chicago  Interior.  My 
friend,  Mr.  Andrew  Keogh,  Reference  Librarian 
of  Yale  University,  has  been  kind  enough  to  pre- 
pare the  List  of  Publications,  thereby  increasing 
my  debt  to  him  for  many  previous  favours. 

W.  L.  P. 

Yale  University, 
Tuesday,  5  October,  1909. 


vU 


CONTENTS 


PAGB 

William  De  Morgan i 


Thomas  Hardy 


33 


William  Dean  Howells 56 

BjORNSTJERNE    BjORNSON 82 

Mark  Twain gg 

Henryk  Sienkiewicz 115 

Hermann  Sudermann 132 


Alfred  Ollivant 


159 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 172 


Mrs.  Humphry  Ward 


191 


RuDYARD  Kipling 208 


"LORNA  Doone" 


229 


Appendices 245 

A.  Novels  as  a  University  Study      .        .        .  245 

B.  The  Teacher's  Attitude  toward  Contem- 

porary Literature 252 

C.  Two  Poems 258 

List  of  Publications 261 


ESSAYS    ON    MODERN 
NOVELISTS 


:i  3  -2.  7  3 
WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 

"How  can  you  know  whether  you  are  successful 
or  not  at  forty-one?  How  do  you  know  you  won't 
have  a  tremendous  success,  all  of  a  sudden?  Yes 
—  after  another  ten  years,  perhaps  —  but  some 
time !  And  then  twenty  years  of  real,  happy  work. 
It  has  all  been  before,  this  sort  of  thing.  Why  not 
you?"  Thus  spoke  the  hopeful  Alice  to  the  despair- 
ing Charley;  and  it  makes  an  interesting  comment 
on  the  very  man  who  wrote  the  conversation,  and 
created  the  speakers.  It  has  indeed  "all  been  be- 
fore, this  sort  of  thing";  only  when  an  extremely 
clever  person,  whose  friends  have  always  been  say- 
ing, with  an  exclamation  rather  than  an  interroga- 
tion point  appended,  "  Why  don't  you  write  a  novel !" 
.  .  .  waits  until  he  has  passed  his  grand  climacteric, 
he  displays  more  faith  in  Providence  than  in  himself. 
All  of  which  is  as  it  should  be.  Keats  died  at  the 
age  of  twenty-five,  but,  from  where  I  am  now  writ- 

B  I 


ESSAYS   ON  MODERN   NOVELISTS 

ing,  I  can  reach  his  Poetical  Works  almost  without 
leaving  my  chair;  he  is  among  the  English  Poets. 
Had  Mr.  De  Morgan  died  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
five?  The  answer  is,  he  didn't.  I  am  no  great 
believer  in  mute,  inglorious  Miltons,  nor  do  I  think 
that  I  daily  pass  potential  novelists  in  the  street. 
Life  is  shorter  than  Art,  as  has  frequently  been  ob- 
served ;  but  it  seems  long  enough  for  Genius.  Genius 
resembles  murder  in  that  it  will  out;  you  can  no 
more  prevent  its  expression  than  you  can  prevent 
the  thrush  from  singing  his  song  twice  over. 
Crabbed  age  and  youth  have  their  peculiar  accent. 
Keats,  with  all  his  glory,  could  not  have  written 
Joseph  Vance,  and  Mr.  De  Morgan,  with  all  his 
skill  in  ceramics,  could  not  have  fashioned  the  Ode 
on  a  Grecian  Urn. 

Sir  Thomas  Browne,  who  loved  miracles,  did  not 
hesitate  to  classify  the  supposed  importance  of  the 
grand  climacteric  as  a  vulgar  error;  he  included  a 
whole  quaint  chapter  on  the  subject,  in  that  old 
curiosity  shop  of  literature,  the  Pseudodoxia  Epi- 
demica.  "And  so  perhaps  hath  it  happened  unto 
the  number  7.  and  9.  which  multiplyed  into  them- 
selves doe  make  up  63.  commonly  esteemed  the 
great  Climactericall  of  our  lives;  for  the  dayes  of 
men  are  usually  cast  up  by  septenaries,  and  every 
seventh  yeare  conceived  to  carry  some  altering  char- 
acter with  it,  cither  in  the  temper  of  body,  minde, 


WILLIAM   DE  MORGAN 

or  both;  but  among  all  other,  three  are  most  re- 
markable, that  is,  7.  times  7.  or  forty-nine,  9.  times  9. 
or  eighty-one,  and  7.  times  9.  or  the  yeare  of  sixty- 
three;  which  is  conceived  to  carry  with  it,  the  most 
considerable  fatality,  and  consisting  of  both  the 
other  numbers  was  apprehended  to  comprise  the 
vertue  of  either,  is  therefore  expected  and  enter- 
tained with  feare,  and  esteemed  a  favour  of  fate  to 
pass  it  over;  which  notwithstanding  many  suspect 
but  to  be  a  Panick  terrour,  and  men  to  feare  they 
justly  know  not  what;  and  for  my  owne  part,  to 
speak  indifferently,  I  find  no  satisfaction,  nor  any 
sufficiency  in  the  received  grounds  to  establish  a 
rationall  feare." 

Among  various  strong  reasons  against  this  super- 
stition, Dr.  Browne  presents  the  impressive  argument 
shown  by  the  Patriarchs:  "the  lives  of  our  fore- 
fathers presently  after  the  flood,  and  more  especially 
before  it,  who,  attaining  unto  8.  or  900.  yeares,  had 
not  their  Climacters  computable  by  digits,  or  as  we 
doe  account  them;  for  the  great  Climactericall  was 
past  unto  them  before  they  begat  children,  or  gave 
any  Testimony  of  their  virilitie,  for  we  read  not  that 
any  begat  children  before  the  age  of  sixtie  five." 

The  strange  case  of  William  De  Morgan  would 
have  deeply  interested  Sir  Thomas,  and  he  would 
have  given  it  both  full  and  minute  consideration. 
For  it  was  just  after  he  had  safely  passed  the  cli- 

3 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

macterical  year  of  sixty-three,  that  our  now  famous 
noveUst  began  what  is  to  us  the  most  important 
chapter  of  his  Hfe,  the  first  chapter  of  Joseph  Vance; 
and,  Hke  the  Patriarchs,  it  was  only  after  he  had 
reached  the  age  of  sixty-five  that  he  became  fruitful, 
producing  those  w^onderful  children  of  his  brain 
that  are  to-day  everywhere  known  and  loved.  Poets 
ripen  early;  if  a  man  comes  to  his  twenty-fifth 
birthday  without  having  written  some  things  su- 
premely well,  he  may  in  most  instances  abandon  all 
hope  of  immortality  in  song;  but  to  every  would-be 
novelist  it  is  reasonable  to  whisper  those  encourag- 
ing words,  "while  there's  life  there's  hope."  Of 
the  ten  writers  who  may  be  classed  as  the  greatest 
English  novelists,  only  one  —  Charles  Dickens  — 
published  a  good  novel  before  the  age  of  thirty. 
Defoe's  first  fiction  of  any  consequence  was  Robin- 
son Crusoe,  printed  in  17 19;  he  was  then  fifty-eight 
years  old.  Richardson  had  turned  fifty  before  his 
earliest  novel  appeared.  And  although  I  can  think 
at  this  moment  of  no  case  exactly  comparable  with 
that  of  the  author  of  Joseph  Vance,  it  is  a  book  to 
which  experience  has  contributed  as  well  as  inspira- 
tion, and  would  be  something,  if  not  inferior,  at  all 
events  very  different,  had  it  been  composed  in  early 
or  in  middle  life.  For  it  vibrates  with  the  echoes 
of  a  long  gallery,  whose  walls  are  crowded  with  in- 
teresting pictures. 

4 


WILLIAM   DE   MORGAN 

The  recent  Romantic  Revival  has  produced  many 
novels  that  have  enjoyed  a  brief  and  noisy  popularity; 
its  worst  effects  are  noticeable  on  the  minds  of  readers, 
unduly  stimulated  by  the  constant  perusal  of  rapid- 
fire  fiction.  Many  will  not  read  further  than  the 
fourth  page,  unless  some  casualties  have  already 
occurred.  To  every  writer  who  starts  with  some 
deliberation,  they  shout,  "Leave  your  damnable 
faces  and  begin."  Authors  who  produce  for  im- 
mediate consumption  are  prepared  for  this;  so  are 
the  more  clever  men  who  write  the  publishers' 
advertisements.  An  announcement  of  a  new  work 
by  an  exceedingly  fashionable  novelist  was  headed 
by  the  appetising  line,  "This  book  goes  with 
a  rush,  and  ends  with  a  smash."  That  would 
hardly  do  as  a  description  of  Clarissa  Harloive, 
Wilhelm  Meister,  or  some  other  classics.  To  a 
highly  nervous  and  irritably  impatient  reading  pub- 
lic, a  man  whose  name  had  no  commercial  value  in 
literature  gravely  offered  in  the  year  of  grace  1906 
an  "ill-written  autobiography"  of  two  hundred 
and  eighty  thousand  words!  Well,  the  result  is 
what  might  7ioi  have  been  expected.  If  ever  a 
confirmed  optimist  had  reason  to  feel  justification 
of  his  faith,  Mr.  De  Morgan  must  have  seen  it  in 
the  reception  given  to  his  first  novel. 

Despite  the  great  length  of  Mr.  De  Morgan's 
books,  and  the  leisurely  passages  of  comment  and 

5 


ESSAYS   ON  MODERN  NOVELISTS 

rather  extraneous  detail,  he  never  begins  slowly. 
No  producer  of  ephemeral  trash,  no  sensation- 
monger,  has  ever  got  under  way  with  more  speed, 
or  taken  a  swifter  initial  plunge  into  the  very  heart 
of  action.  One  memorable  day  in  1873,  Count 
Tolstoi  picked  up  a  little  story  by  Pushkin,  which 
his  ten-year-old  son  had  been  reading  aloud  to  a 
member  of  the  family.  The  great  Russian  glanced 
at  the  first  sentence,  "The  guests  began  to  assemble 
the  evening  before  the  fete."  He  was  mightily 
pleased.  "That's  the  way  to  begin  a  story!"  he 
cried.  "The  reader  is  taken  by  one  stroke  into 
the  midst  of  the  action.  Another  writer  would  have 
commenced  by  describing  the  guests,  the  rooms, 
while  Pushkin  —  he  goes  straight  at  his  goal." 
Some  of  those  in  the  room  laughed,  and  suggested 
that  Tolstoi  himself  appropriate  such  a  beginning 
and  write  a  novel.  He  immediately  retired  and 
wrote  the  first  sentences  of  Anna  Karenina;  which 
is  literally  the  manner  in  which  that  masterpiece 
came  into  being.*  Now  if  one  will  open  any  of  Mr. 
De  Morgan's  works,  he  will  find  the  procedure  that 
Tolstoi  praised.  Something  immediately  happens  — 
happens  before  we  have  any  idea  of  the  real  char- 
acter of  the  agents,  and  before  we  hardly  know  where 
we  are.     Indeed,  the  first  chapter  of  Somehow  Good 

'  Leon   Tolstoi :    Vie  et   CEuvres.     M6moires   par   P.  Birukov. 
Traduction  Frangaise,  Tome  III,  p.  177. 

6 


WILLIAM   DE  MORGAN 

may  serve  as  an  artistic  model  for  the  commence- 
ment of  a  novel.  It  is  written  with  extraordinary 
vivacity  and  spirit.  But  the  author  understands 
better  how  to  begin  his  works  than  he  does  how  to 
end  them.  The  close  of  Joseph  Vance  is  like  the 
mouth  of  the  Mississippi,  running  off  into  the  open 
sea  through  a  great  variety  of  passages.  The  end- 
ing of  Alice-for-Short  is  accomplished  only  by  notes, 
comment,  and  citations.  And  Somehow  Good  is  sim- 
ply snipped  off,  when  it  might  conceivably  have  pro- 
ceeded on  its  way.  His  fourth  novel  is  the  only  one 
that  ends  as  well  as  it  begins. 

You  cannot  judge  books,  any  more  than  you  can 
individuals,  by  the  first  words  they  say.  If  I  could 
only  discover  somewhere  some  man,  woman,  or  child 
who  had  not  read  Joseph  Vance,  I  should  like  to 
tell  hun  the  substance  of  the  first  chapter,  and  ask 
him  to  guess  what  sort  of  a  story  had  awakened  my 
enthusiasm.  Suppose  some  person  who  had  never 
heard  of  Browning  should  stumble  on  Pauline,  and 
read  the  first  three  lines :  — 

"Pauline,  mine  own,  bend  o'er  me  —  thy  soft  breast 
Shall  pant  to  mine  —  bend  o'er  me  —  thy  sweet  eyes, 
And  loosened  hair  and  breathing  lips,  and  arms" 

one  sees  the  sharp  look  of  expectation  on  the  reader's 
face,  and  one  almost  laughs  aloud  to  think  what 
there  is  in  store  for  him.     He  will  very  soon  exhibit 

7 


ESSAYS   ON  MODERN  NOVELISTS 

symptoms  of  bewilderment,  and  before  he  has  fin- 
ished the  second  page  he  will  push  the  book  aside 
with  an  air  of  pious  disappointment.  No  slum 
story  ever  opened  more  promisingly  than  Joseph 
Vance.  We  are  led  at  the  very  start  into  a  dirty 
rum-shop ;  there  immediately  ensues  a  fight  between 
two  half-drunken  loafers  in  the  darkness  without; 
this  results  in  the  double  necessity  of  the  police  and 
the  hospital;  and  a  broken  bottle,  found  against 
a  dead  cat,  is  the  missile  employed  to  destroy  a 
human  eye.  In  Alice-for-Short,  the  first  chapter 
shows  us  a  ragged  little  girl  of  six  carrying  a  jug  of 
beer  from  a  public-house  to  a  foul  basement,  where 
dwell  her  father  and  mother,  both  victims  of  alcohol. 
The  police  again.  On  the  third  page  of  Somehow 
Good,  we  have  the  "fortune  to  strike  on  a  rich  vein 
of  so-called  life  in  a  London  slum."  The  hero 
gives  a  drunken,  murderous  scoundrel  a  "blow  like 
the  kick  of  a  horse,  that  lands  fairly  on  the  eye 
socket  with  a  cracking  concussion  that  can  be  heard 
above  the  tumult,  and  is  followed  by  a  roar  of  delight 
from  the  male  vermin."  Once  more  the  police. 
It  Never  can  Happen  Again  begins  in  a  corner  of 
London  unspeakably  vile. 

Zola  and  Gorky  at  their  best,  and  worst  —  for 
it  is  sometimes  hard  to  make  the  distinction  —  have 
not  often  surpassed  the  first  chapters  of  Mr.  De 
Morgan's  four  novels.     Never  has  a  writer  waded 

8 


WILLIAM   DE    MORGAN 

more  unflinchingly  into  the  slime.  And  yet  the  very 
last  word  to  characterise  these  books  would  be  the 
word  "slum-stories."  The  foundations  of  Mr.  De 
Morgan's  work,  like  the  foundations  of  cathedrals,  are 
deep  in  the  dirt;  but  the  total  impression  is  one  of 
exceeding  beauty.  Indeed,  with  our  novelist's  con- 
ception of  life,  as  a  progress  toward  something  high 
and  sublime,  where  evil  not  only  exists,  but  is  a 
necessary  factor  in  development,  the  darkness  of 
the  shadows  proves  the  intense  radiance  of  the  sun. 
The  planet  Venus  is  so  bright,  we  are  accustomed 
to  remark,  that  it  sometimes  casts  a  shadow.  Chris- 
topher Vance  emerges  from  beastly  degradation  to 
a  position  of  power,  influence,  and  usefulness;  the 
Heath  family,  in  receiving  Alice,  entertain  an  angel 
unawares;  and  the  march  of  Somehow  Good  goes 
from  hell,  through  purgatory,  and  into  paradise. 
It  is  a  divine  comedy,  in  more  ways  than  one;  and 
shows  that  sometimes  the  goal  of  ill  is  very  unlike 
the  start. 

We  had  not  read  far  into  Joseph  Vance  before  we 
shouted  Dickens  Redivivus!  or  some  equivalent 
remark  in  the  vernacular.  We  made  this  outcry 
with  no  tincture  of  depreciation  and  with  no  yelp 
of  the  plagiarism-hunting  hound.  It  requires  Httle 
skill  to  observe  the  similarity  to  Dickens,  as  was 
proved  by  the  fact  that  everyone  noticed  it.  In 
general,  the  shout  was  one  of  glad  recognition;   it 

9 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

was  the  welcome  given  to  the  sound  of  a  voice  that 
had  been  still.  It  was  not  an  imitation:  it  was  a 
reincarnation.  The  spirit  of  Dickens  had  really 
entered  into  William  De  Morgan;  many  chapters 
in  Joseph  Vance  sounded  as  if  they  had  been  dictated 
by  the  ghost  of  the  author  of  Copperfield.  No 
book  since  1870  had  given  so  vivid  an  impression 
of  the  best-beloved  of  all  English  novelists.  This 
is  meant  to  be  high  praise.  When  Walt  Whitman 
was  being  exalted  for  his  unlikeness  to  the  great 
poets,  one  sensible  critic  quietly  remarked,  "It  is 
easier  to  differ  from  the  great  poets  than  to  resemble 
them."  To  "remind  us  of  Dickens"  would  be  as 
difficult  for  many  modern  novelists  as  for  a  molehill 
to  remind  us  of  the  Matterhorn. 

We  may  say,  however,  that  Joseph  Vance  and 
It  Never  can  Happen  Again  are  more  like  Dickens 
in  character  and  in  detail  than  is  Alice-for-Short ; 
and  that  the  latter  is  closer  to  Dickens  than  is  Some- 
how Good.  The  Reverend  Benaiah  Capstick  in- 
fallibly calls  to  mind  the  spiritual  adviser  of  Mrs. 
Weller;  with  the  exception  that  the  latter  was  also 
spirituous.  That  kind  of  religion  docs  not  seem 
strongly  to  appeal  to  either  novelist;  for  Mr. 
Stiggins  took  to  drink,  and  Capstick  lo  an  insane 
asylum.  There  are  many  things  in  the  conversa- 
tion of  Christopher  Vance  that  recall  the  humorous 
world- wisdom  of  the  elder  Weller;   and  so  we  might 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 

continue,  were  it  profitable.  Another  great  point 
of  resemblance  between  Mr.  De  Morgan  and 
Dickens  is  seen  in  the  method  of  narration  chosen 
by  each.  Here  William  De  Morgan  is  simply  follow- 
ing in  the  main  track  of  English  fiction,  where  the 
novelist  cannot  refrain  from  editing  the  text  of  the 
story.  The  course  of  events  is  constantly  inter- 
rupted by  the  author's  gloss.  Now  when  the 
author's  mind  is  not  particularly  interesting,  the 
comment  is  an  unpleasant  interruption;  it  is  both 
impertinent  and  dull.  But  when  the  writer  is  him- 
self more  profound,  more  clever,  and  more  enter- 
taining than  even  his  best  characters,  we  cannot 
have  too  much  of  him.  It  is  true  that  Mr.  De 
Morgan  has  told  a  good  story  in  each  of  his  novels; 
but  it  is  also  true  that  the  story  is  not  the  cause 
of  their  reputation.  We  read  these  books  with  delight 
because  the  characters  are  so  attractive,  and  because 
the  author's  comments  on  them  and  on  events  are 
so  penetrating.  If  it  is  true,  as  some  have  intimated, 
that  this  method  of  novel-writing  proves  that  Mr. 
De  Morgan,  whatever  he  is,  is  not  a  literary  artist, 
then  it  is  undeniable  that  Fielding,  Dickens,  Trollope, 
and  Thackeray  are  not  artists;  which  is  absurd, 
as  Euclid  would  say.  Great  books  are  invariably 
greater  than  our  definitions  of  them.  Browning 
and  Wagner  composed  great  works  of  Art  without 
paying  much  attention  to  the  rules  of  the  game. 

II 


ESSAYS   ON  MODERN  NOVELISTS 

As  compared  with  French  and  Russian  fiction, 
English  novels  from  Fielding  to  De  Morgan  have 
unquestionably  sounded  a  note  of  insincerity.  One 
reason  for  this  lies  in  the  fact  that  to  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  mind,  Morality  has  always  seemed  infinitely 
more  important  than  Art.  Matthew  Arnold  spent 
his  life  fighting  the  Philistines;  but  when  he  said 
that  conduct  was  three-fourths  of  life,  there  was 
jubilation  in  the  enemy's  camp.  Now  Zola  declared 
that  a  novel  could  no  more  be  called  immoral  in 
its  descriptions  than  a  text-book  on  physiology; 
the  novelist  commits  a  sin  when  he  writes  a  badly 
constructed  sentence.  A  disciple  of  this  school  in- 
sisted that  it  was  more  important  to  have  an  accurate 
sense  of  colour  than  to  have  a  clear  notion  of  right 
and  wrong.  Fortunately  for  the  true  greatness 
of  humanity,  you  never  can  get  the  average  English- 
man or  American  to  swallow  such  doctrine.  But 
it  is  at  the  same  time  certain  that  among  English- 
speaking  peoples  Art  has  seldom  been  taken  with 
sufficient  seriousness.  We  are  handy  with  our  fists ; 
but  you  cannot  imagine  us  using  them  in  behalf  of 
literature,  as  we  do  for  real  or  personal  property. 
So  far  as  I  know,  an  English  audience  in  the  theatre 
has  never  been  excited  on  a  purely  artistic  question 
—  a  matter  of  frequent  occurrence  on  the  Continent. 
We  seem  to  believe  that,  after  all.  Art  has  no  place 
in  the  serious  business  of  life;  it  is  a  recreation,  to 

12 


WILLIAM   DE  MORGAN 

amuse  a  mind  overstrained  by  money-making  or 
by  political  affairs.  We  leave  it  to  women,  w^ho  are 
supposed  to  have  more  leisure  for  trifles. 

For  this  reason,  English  novelists  have  generally 
felt  compelled  to  treat  their  public  as  a  tired  mother 
treats  a  restless  child.  Our  novelists  have  been  in 
mortal  terror  lest  the  attention  of  their  audience 
should  vi^ander;  and  instead  of  taking  their  work 
and  their  readers  seriously,  they  continually  hand 
us  lollipops.  Their  attitude  is  at  once  apologetic 
and  insulting.  They  do  not  dare  to  believe  that  a 
great  work  of  Art  —  without  personal  comment  — 
has  in  itself  moral  greatness,  and  they  do  not  dare 
trust  the  intelligence  of  spectators,  but  must  forsooth 
constantly  break  the  illusion  by  soothing  or  ex- 
planatory remarks.  The  fact  that  in  our  greatest 
writers  this  is  often  presented  from  the  standpoint 
of  humour,  docs  not  prevent  the  loss  of  illusion ;  and 
in  writers  who  are  not  great,  the  reader  feels  nothing 
but  indignation.  In  the  first  chapter  of  the  third 
book  of  Amelia,  we  find  the  following  advice:  — 

"He  then  proceeded  as  Miss  Matthews  desired;  but,  lest 
all  our  readers  should  not  be  of  her  opinion,  we  will,  according 
to  our  usual  custom,  endeavour  to  accommodate  ourselves  to 
every  taste,  and  shall,  therefore,  place  this  scene  in  a  chapter 
by  itself,  which  we  desire  all  our  readers  who  do  not  love,  or 
who,  perhaps,  do  not  know  the  pleasure  of  tenderness,  to  pass 
over;  since  they  may  do  this  without  any  prejudice  to  the 
thread  of  the  narrative." 

13 


ESSAYS   ON  MODERN  NOVELISTS       ' 

In  the  first  chapter  of  Shirley,  Charlotte  Bronte 
prologises  as  follows :  — 

"If  you  think  .  .  .  that  anything  like  a  romance  is  pre- 
paring for  you,  reader,  you  never  were  more  mistaken.  .  .  . 
Calm  your  expectations;  reduce  them  to  a  lowly  standard. 
Something  real,  cool,  and  solid  lies  before  you;  ...  It  is 
not  positively  affirmed  that  you  shall  not  have  a  taste  of  the 
exciting,  perhaps  toward  the  middle  and  close  of  the  meal, 
but  it  is  resolved  that  the  first  dish  set  upon  the  table  shall  be 
one  that  a  Catholic  —  ay,  even  an  Anglo -Catholic  —  might 
eat  on  Good  Friday  in  Passion  Week;  it  shall  be  cold  lentils 
and  vinegar  without  oil;  it  shall  be  unleavened  bread  with 
bitter  herbs,  and  no  roast  lamb." 

William  Black  once  wrote  a  novel  called  Madcap 
Violet,  which  he  intended  for  a  tragedy,  and  in  which, 
therefore,  we  have  a  right  to  expect  some  artistic 
dignity.  About  midway  in  the  volume  we  find  the 
following :  — 

"At  this  point,  and  in  common  courtesy  to  his  readers, 
the  writer  of  these  pages  considers  himself  bound  to  give  fair 
warning  that  the  following  chapter  deals  solely  and  wholly 
with  the  shooting  of  mergansers,  curlews,  herons,  and  such 
like  fearful  wild  fowl;  therefore,  those  who  regard  such 
graceless  idling  with  aversion,  and  are  anxious  to  get  on 
with  the  story,  should  at  once  proceed  to  chapter  twenty- 
three." 

At  the  beginning  of  the  second  chapter  of  Dr.  Thorne, 
one  of  the  best  of  Trollope's  novels,  we  are  petted 
in  this  manner :  — 

14 


WILLIAM   DE  MORGAN 

"A  few  words  must  still  be  said  about  Miss  Mary  before 
we  rush  into  our  story;  the  crust  will  then  have  been  broken, 
and  the  pic  will  be  open  to  the  guests." 

At  ^the  three  hundred  and  seventy-second  page  of 
the  late  Marion  Crawford's  entertaining  story, 
The  Prima  Donna,  the  course  of  the  narrative  is 
thus  interrupted:  — 

"Now  at  this  stage  of  my  story  it  would  be  unpardonable 
to  keep  my  readers  in  suspense,  if  I  may  suppose  that  any  of 
them  have  a  little  curiosity  left.  Therefore,  I  shall  not  narrate 
in  detail  what  happened  Friday,  Saturday,  and  Sunday, 
seeing  that  it  was  just  what  might  have  been  expected  to  hap- 
pen at  a  week-end  party  during  the  season  when  there  is 
nothing  in  the  world  to  do  but  to  play  golf,  tennis,  or  croquet, 
or  to  write  or  drive  all  day,  and  to  work  hard  at  bridge  all 
the  evening;   for  that  is  what  it  has  come  to." 

Finally,  in  the  first  chapter  of  Mr.  Winston 
Churchill's  novel,  Coniston,  the  author  pleads  with 
his  reader  in  this  style:  — 

"The  reader  is  warned  that  this  first  love-story  will,  in 
a  few  chapters,  come  to  an  end ;  and  not  to  a  happy  end  — 
otherwise  there  would  be  no  book.  Lest  he  should  throw 
the  book  away  when  he  arrives  at  this  page,  it  is  only  fair  to 
tell  him  that  there  is  another  and  much  longer  love-story 
later  on,  if  he  will  only  continue  to  read,  in  which,  it  is  hoped, 
he  may  not  be  disappointed." 

Imagine  Turgcncv  or  Flaubert  scribbling  anything 
similar  to  the  interpolations  quoted  above !    When 

15 


ESSAYS   ON  MODERN  NOVELISTS 

a  great  French  novelist  does  condescend  to  speak 
to  his  reader,  it  is  in  a  tone,  that  so  far  from  be- 
littling his  own  art,  or  sugaring  the  expectation  of 
his  listener,  has  quite  the  contrary  effect.  On  the 
second  page  of  Phre  Goriot,  we  find  the  following 
solemn  warning :  — 

"Ainsi  ferez-vous,  vous  qui  tenez  ce  livre  d'une  main 
blanche,  vous  qui  vous  enfoncez  dans  un  moUeux  fauteuil 
en  vous  disant:  'Peut-etre  ceci  va-t-il  m'amuser.'  Aprbs 
avoir  lu  les  secretes  infortunes  du  pere  Goriot,  vous  dinerez 
avec  appdtit  en  mettant  votre  insensibilite  sur  le  compte  de 
I'auteur,  en  le  taxant  d'exageration,  en  I'accusant  de  poesie. 
Ah!  sachez-le:  ce  drame  n'est  ni  une  fiction  ni  un  roman. 
All  is  true,  il  est  si  veritable,  que  chacun  peut  en  reconnaitre 
les  elements  chez  soi,  dans  son  coeur  peut-etre." 

The  chief  objection  to  these  constant  remarks 
to  the  reader,  so  common  in  great  English  novels, 
is  that  they  for  the  moment  destroy  the  illusion. 
Suppose  an  actress  in  the  midst  of  Ophelia's  mad 
scene  should  suddenly  pause  and  address  the  audi- 
ence in  her  own  accents  in  this  wise :  "  I  observe  that 
some  ladies  among  the  spectators  are  weeping,  and 
that  some  men  are  yawning.  Allow  me  to  say  to 
those  of  you  who  dislike  tragic  events  on  the  stage, 
that  I  shall  remain  here  only  a  few  moments  longer, 
and  shall  not  have  much  to  say;  and  that  if  you 
will  only  be  patient,  the  grave-diggers  will  come  on 
before  long,  and  it  is  probable  that  their  conversa- 
tion will  amuse  you." 

i6 


WILLIAM   DE   MORGAN 

The  two  reasons  given  above,  the  fear  that  a  novel 
unexplained  by  author's  comment  will  not  justify 
itself  morally,  and  that  at  all  hazards  the  gentle 
reader  must  be  placated  and  entertained,  undoubtedly 
partly  explain  a  long  tradition  in  the  course  of  English 
fiction.  But  while  we  may  protest  against  this  sort 
of  thing  in  general,  it  is  well  to  remember  that  we 
must  take  our  men  of  genius  as  we  find  them,  and 
rejoice  that  they  have  seen  fit  to  employ  any  channel 
of  expression.  There  are  many  different  kinds  of 
great  novels,  as  there  are  of  great  poems.  The  fact 
that  Tennyson's  poetry  belongs  to  the  first  class 
does  not  in  the  least  prevent  the  totally  different 
poetry  of  Browning  from  being  ranked  equally  high. 
Joseph  Vance  is  a  very  different  kind  of  novel  from 
The  Return  of  the  Native,  but  both  awaken  our 
wonder  and  delight.  There  are  some  books  that 
inspire  us  by  their  art,  and  there  are  others  that 
inspire  us  by  their  ideas.  Turgenev  was  surely 
a  greater  artist  than  Tolstoi,  but  Anna  Karenina 
is  a  veritable  piece  of  life. 

I  do  not  say  that  William  De  Morgan  is  not  a 
great  artist,  because,  if  I  should  say  it,  I  should  not 
know  exactly  what  I  meant.  But  the  immense 
pleasure  that  his  books  give  me  is  another  kind  of 
pleasure  than  I  receive  from  The  Scarlet  Letter. 
Joseph  Vance  is  not  so  much  a  beautifully  written 
or  exquisitely  constructed  novel  as  it  is  an  ency- 
c  17 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

clopaedia  of  life.    We  meet  real  people,   we  hear 
delightful  conversation,  and  the  tremendously  inter- 
estmg  personality  of  the  author  is  everywhere  ap- 
parent.    The  opinion  of  many  authors  concerning 
immortality  is  not  worth  attention;    but  I  should 
very   much   Hke  to  know  Mr.  De  Morgan's  \dews 
on    this    absorbing    subject.     And    so    I    turn    to 
the  fortieth  chapter  of  Joseph  Vance  with  great  ex- 
pectations.    The    reader    is    advised    to    skip    this 
chapter,  a  sure  indication  of  its  importance.     For, 
like  all  humorists,  Mr.  De  Morgan  is  a  bit  shame- 
faced when  he  talks  about  the  deepest  things,  the 
things  that  really  interest  him  most.     It  surely  will 
not  do  to  have  Dr.  Thorpe  talk  like  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Capstick,  although  they  both  eagerly  discuss 
what  we  call  the  supernatural.     Capstick  is  an  ass, 
but  he  has  one  characteristic  that  we  might,  to  a 
certain  extent,  imitate;  he  sees  no  reason  to  apologise 
for  conversing  on  great  topics,  or  to  break  up  such 
a  conversation  with  an  embarrassed  laugh.    Most  of 
us  are  horribly  afraid  of  being  taken  for  sanctimonious 
persons,  when  there  is  really  not  the  slightest  dan- 
ger.     We    are   always    pleasantly    surprised    when 
we  discover  that  our  friends  are  at  heart  just  as 
serious  as  we  are,  and  that  they,  too,  regret  the  mask 
of  flippancy  that  our  Anglo-Saxon  false  modesty  com- 
pels us  to  wear.     But,  as  some  one  has  said,  you 
cannot   expect  your  audience  to  take  your  views 

i8 


WILLIAM   DE   MORGAN 

seriously  unless  you  express  them  with  seriousness. 
Mr.  De  Morgan,  Hkc  Robert  Browning,  would  doubt- 
less deny  that  Dr.  Thorpe  spoke  only  the  author's 
thoughts;  but  just  as  you  can  hear  Browning's 
voice  all  through  those  "utterances  of  so  many 
imaginary  persons,  not  mine,"  so  I  feel  confident 
that  amid  all  the  light  banter  of  this  charming  talk 
in  the  fortieth  chapter,  the  following  remark  of  Dr. 
Thorpe  expresses  the  philosophy  of  William  De 
Morgan,  and  at  the  same  time  the  basal  moral  prin- 
ciple underlying  this  entire  novel: — "The  highest 
good  is  the  growth  of  the  Soul,  and  the  greatest 
man  is  he  who  rejoices  most  in  great  fulfilments 
of  the  will   of   God." 

For  although  Mr.  De  Morgan  belongs,  like 
Dickens,  to  the  great  humorists,  who,  while  keenly 
conscious  of  the  enormous  difference  between  right 
and  wrong,  regard  the  world  with  a  kindly  smile 
for  human  weakness  and  folly,  he  is  mainly  a  psy- 
chologist. To  all  of  his  novels  he  might  appropriately 
have  prefixed  the  words  of  the  author  of  Sordello: 
"My  stress  lay  on  the  incidents  in  the  development 
of  a  soul;  little  else  is  worth  study."  All  the  char- 
acters that  he  loves  show  soid-development ;  the  few 
characters  that  are  unlovely  have  souls  that  do  not 
advance.  Joseph,  Lossie,  Janey,  Alicia,  Charles 
Heath,  RosaHnd,  Athelstan,  have  the  inner  man  re- 
newed day  by  day;  one  feels  that  at  physical  death 

19 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

such  personalities  proceed  naturally  into  a  sphere  of 
eternal  progress.  On  the  other  hand,  Joey's  soul 
stands  still ;  so  do  the  souls  of  Violet,  Lavinia  Straker, 
Mrs.  Vereker,  Airs.  Eldridge,  Judith,  and  Mrs.  Craik. 
WTiy  should  they  live  for  ever  ?  They  would  always 
be  the  same.  This  is  the  real  distinction  in  these 
novels  between  people  that  are  fundamentally  good 
and  those  that  are  fundamentally  bad ;  whether  their 
badness  causes  tragedy  or  merely  constant  irritation. 
It  is  an  original  manner  of  dividing  virtue  from  vice, 
but  it  is  illuminating. 

The  events  in  Mr.  De  Morgan's  books  are  im- 
probable, but  the  people  are  probable.  The  same 
might  be  said  of  Shakespeare.  It  is  highly  im- 
probable that  Christopher  Vance  could  have  risen 
to  fortune  through  his  sign-board,  or  that  Fenwick 
should  have  been  electrocuted  at  the  feet  of 
his  wife's  daughter.  But  Christopher  Vance,  Fen- 
wick, and  Sally  behave  precisely  as  people  would 
behave  in  such  emergencies  in  real  life.  In  many 
ways  I  think  Christopher  Vance  is  the  most  con- 
vincing character  in  all  the  novels;  at  any  rate,  I 
had  rather  hear  him  talk  than  any  of  the  others. 
There  is  no  trace  of  meanness  in  him,  and  even  when 
he  is  drunk  he  is  never  offensive  or  disgusting.  The 
day  after  he  has  returned  intoxicated  from  a  meeting 
of  the  Board  of  Arbitrators,  he  seems  rather  inquisi- 
tive as  to  his  exact  condition,  and  asks  his  son:  — 

20 


WILLIAM   DE   MORGAN 

"I  wasn't  singin'  though,  Nipper,  was  I?"  I  said  cer- 
tainly not!  "Not  'a  Landlady  of  France  she  loved  an 
Officer,  'tis  said,'  nor  'stick  'em  up  again  in  the  middle  of 
a  three-cent  pie'?" 

"Neither  of  them  —  quite  certain."  My  father  seemed 
reassured.  "That's  something,  anyhow,"  said  he.  "The 
other  Arbitrators  was  singin'  both.  Likewise  'Rule  Britan- 
nia.'    Weak-headed  cards,  the  two  on  'em!" 

The  scene  at  Christopher  Vance's  death-bed,  when 
Joseph  finally  discloses  the  identity  of  the  boy  who 
threw  the  piece  of  glass  into  the  eye  of  the  Sweep, 
touches  the  depths  of  true  pathos.  One  feels  the 
infinite  love  of  the  father  for  the  little  son  who  de- 
fended him.  He  is  quite  rightly  prouder  of  that 
exploit  than  of  all  the  Nipper's  subsequent  learning. 

While  the  imaginary  events  in  this  novel  bear  no 
sort  of  relation  to  the  circumstances  of  the  author's 
own  life,  I  cannot  help  launching  the  mere  guess  that 
the  father  of  William  De  Morgan  was,  to  a  certain 
extent,  a  combination  of  Christopher  Vance  and  Dr. 
Thorpe.  For  Augustus  De  Morgan  was  not  only 
a  distinguished  mathematical  scholar,  he  was  well- 
known  for  the  keenness  of  his  wit.  He  had  the 
learning  and  refinement  of  Dr.  Thorpe,  and  the 
shrewd,  irresistible  humour  of  old  Vance.  At  all 
events,  this  striking  combination  in  the  novelist 
can  be  traced  to  no  more  probable  source. 

The  influence  of  good  women  on  men's  lives  is 
repeatedly  shown;  it  is  indeed  a  leading   principle 


ESSAYS   ON  MODERN  NOVELISTS 

in  three  of  the  books.  One  of  the  most  notable 
differences  in  novels  that  reflect  a  pessimistic  Welt- 
anschauung from  those  that  indicate  the  con- 
trary may  be  seen  right  here.  How  completely  the 
whole  significance  of  the  works  of  Guy  de  Mau- 
passant would  change  had  he  included  here  and 
there  some  women  who  combined  virtue  with  per- 
sonal charm!  "Were  there  no  women,  men  would 
live  like  gods,"  said  a  character  in  one  of  Dekker's 
plays;  judged  by  much  modern  fiction,  one  would 
feel  like  trying  the  experiment.  But  what  would 
become  of  Mr.  De  Morgan's  novels,  and  of  the 
attitude  toward  life  they  so  clearly  reflect,  if  they 
contained  no  women?  Young  Joseph  Vance  was 
fortunate  indeed  in  having  in  his  life  the  powerful 
influence  of  two  such  characters  as  Lossie  Thorpe 
and  Janey  Spencer.  They  were  what  a  compass  is 
to  a  shipman,  taking  him  straight  on  his  course 
through  the  blackest  storms.  It  was  for  Lossie 
that  he  made  the  greatest  sacrifice  in  his  whole 
existence;  and  nothing  pays  a  higher  rate  of  moral 
interest  than  a  big  sacrifice.  It  was  Janey  who 
led  him  from  the  grossness  of  earth  into  the  spiritual 
world,  something  that  Lossie,  with  all  her  loveliness, 
could  not  do.  Both  women  sliow  that  there  is 
nothing  inherently  dull  in  goodness;  it  may  be  ac- 
companied with  some  esprit.  Wc  arc  too  apt  to 
think  that  moral  goodness  is  represented  by  such 

22 


WILLIAM   DE   MORGAN 

persons  as  the  Elder  Brother  in  the  story  of  the 
Prodigal  Son,  when  the  parable  indicates  that  the 
younger  brother,  with  all  his  crimes,  was  actually 
the  more  virtuous  of  the  two.  It  took  no  small 
skill  for  Mr.  De  Morgan  to  create  such  an  irresistibly 
good  woman  as  Lossie,  make  his  hero  in  love  with 
her  from  boyhood,  cause  her  to  marry  some  one 
else,  and  then  to  unite  the  heart-broken  hero  with 
another  girl;  and  through  these  tremendous  up- 
heavals to  make  all  things  work  together  for  good, 
and  to  the  reader's  complete  satisfaction.  This 
could  not  possibly  have  been  accomplished  had  not 
the  author  been  able  to  fashion  a  woman,  who, 
while  totally  unlike  Lossie  in  every  physical  and 
mental  aspect,  was  spiritually  even  more  attractive. 
I  am  not  sure  which  of  the  two  girls  has  the  bigger 
place  in  their  maker's  heart;  I  suspect  it  is  Lossie; 
but  to  me  Janey  is  not  only  a  better  woman,  I  really 
have  a  stronger  affection  for  her. 

In  Alice-for-Short,  the  hero  is  again  blessed  with 
two  guardian  angels,  his  sister  and  his  second  wife. 
Mr.  De  Morgan  is  extremely  generous  to  his  favourite 
men,  in  permitting  either  their  second  choice  or 
their  second  experiment  in  matrimony  to  prove 
such  an  amazing  success.  Comparatively  few  novel- 
ists dare  to  handle  the  problem  of  happy  second 
marriages;  the  subject  for  some  reason  docs  not 
lend  itself  readily  to  romance.     Josh  Billings  said 

23 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

he  knew  of  absolutely  nothing  that  would  cure  a 
man  of  laziness ;  but  that  a  second  wife  would  some- 
times help.  Although  he  said  this  in  the  spirit  of 
farce,  it  is  exactly  what  happens  in  Mr.  De  Morgan's 
books.  Janey  is  not  technically  a  second  wife, 
but  she  is  spiritually;  and  she  rescues  Joseph  from 
despair,  restores  his  ambition  and  capacity  to  work, 
and  after  her  death  is  like  a  guiding  star.  Alice 
is  a  second  wife,  both  in  her  husband's  heart  and  in 
the  law;  and  her  influence  on  Charles  Heath  pro- 
vides exactly  the  stimulus  needed  to  save  him  from 
himself.  Fenwick  marries  for  the  second  time, 
and  although  his  wife  is  in  one  sense  the  same  person, 
in  another  she  is  not ;  she  is  quite  different  in  every- 
thing except  constancy  from  the  wretched  girl  he 
left  sobbing  on  the  verandah  in  India.  And  what 
would  have  become  of  Fenwick  without  the  mature 
Rosalind?  Salvation,  in  Mr.  De  Morgan's  novels, 
often  assumes  a  feminine  shape.  They  are  not  books 
of  Friendship,  like  Tlie  Cloister  and  the  Hearth,  Trilby, 
and  Es  War;  with  all  their  wonderful  intelligence 
and  play  of  intellect,  they  would  seem  almost  barren 
without  women.  And  he  is  far  more  successful 
in  depicting  love  after  marriage  than  before.  One 
of  the  most  charming  characteristics  of  these  stories 
is  the  frequent  representation  of  the  highest  happi- 
ness known  on  earth  —  not  found  in  the  passion  of 
early  youth,  but  in  a  union  of  two  hearts  cemented 

24 


WILLIAM   DE   MORGAN 

by  joy  and  sorrow  in  the  experience  of  years.  No 
novelist  has  ever  given  us  better  pictures  of  a  good 
EngHsh  home;  more  attractive  ghmpscs  into  the 
reservcless  intimacy  of  the  affairs  of  the  hearth. 
The  conversations  between  Christopher  Vance  and 
his  wife,  between  Sir  Rupert  and  Lady  Johnson, 
between  Fenwick  and  RosaHnd,  are  decidedly  su- 
perior to  the  "love-making"  scenes.  Indeed,  the 
description  of  the  walk  during  which  young  Dr. 
Vereker  definitely  wins  Sally,  is  disappointing. 
It  is  perhaps  the  only  important  episode  in  Mr. 
De  Morgan's  novels  that  shows  more  effort  than 
inspiration. 

The  style  in  these  books,  despite  constant  quota- 
tion, is  not  at  all  a  literary  style.  Joseph  Vance 
is  called  "an  ill-written  autobiography,"  because 
it  lacks  entirely  the  conventional  manner.  Many 
works  of  fiction  are  composed  in  what  might  be  called 
the  terminology  of  the  art;  just  as  works  in  science 
and  in  sport  are  compelled  to  repeat  constantly  the 
same  verbal  forms.  The  astonishing  freshness 
and  charm  of  Mr.  De  Morgan's  method  consist 
partly  in  his  abandonment  of  literary  precedent, 
and  adhering  only  to  actual  observation.  It  is  as 
though  an  actor  on  the  stage  should  suddenly  drop 
his  mannerism  of  accent  and  gesture,  and  behave 
as  he  would  were  he  actually,  instead  of  histrionically, 
happy  or  wretched.     Despite  the  likeness  to  Dickens 

25 


ESSAYS   ON  MODERN  NOVELISTS 

in  characters  and  atmosphere,  Joseph  Vance  sounds 
not  only  as  though  its  author  had  never  written  a 
novel  previously,  but  as  though  he  had  never  read 
one.  It  has  the  strangeness  of  reality.  There  is 
no  lack  of  action  in  these  huge  narratives:  the  men 
and  women  pass  through  the  most  thrilling  incidents, 
and  suffer  the  greatest  extremes  of  passion,  pain, 
and  joy  that  the  human  mind  can  endure.  We  have 
three  cases  of  drowning,  one  tremendous  fire;  and 
in  Sofnehow  Good  —  which,  viewed  merely  as  a 
story,  is  the  best  of  them  —  a  highly  eventful  plot ; 
and,  spiritually,  the  characters  give  us  an  idea  of 
how  much  agony  the  heart  can  endure  without  quite 
breaking.  But  though  the  bare  plot  seems  almost 
like  melodrama,  the  style  is  never  on  stilts.  In  the 
most  awful  crises,  the  language  has  the  absolute 
simplicity  of  actual  circumstance.  When  Rosalind 
recognises  her  husband  in  the  cab,  we  wonder  why 
she  takes  it  so  coolly.  Some  sixty  pages  farther 
along,  we  come  upon  this  paragraph:  — 

"Nevertheless,  these  were  not  so  absolute  that  her  de- 
meanour escaped  comment  from  the  cabby,  the  only  witness 
of  her  first  sight  of  the  'electrocuted'  man.  He  spoke  of  her 
afterwards  as  that  squealing  party  down  that  sanguinary 
little  turning  off  Shepherd's  Bush  Road  he  took  that  sangui- 
nary galvanic  shock  to." 

Our  author  is  fond  of  presenting  events  of  the  most 
momentous  consequence  through  the  lips  of  humble 

26 


WILLIAM   DE   MORGAN 

and  indifferent  observers.  It  is  only  the  cabman's 
chance  testimony  which  shows  us  that  even  Rosahnd's 
superb  self-control  had  the  limit  determined  by  real 
womanhood;  and  in  Joseph  Vance,  the  great  climax 
of  emotion,  when  Lossie  visits  her  maligned  old 
lover,  is  given  with  unconscious  force  through  the 
faulty  vernacular  of  the  "slut"  of  a  servant-maid, 
who  is  utterly  unaware  of  the  angels  that  ministered 
over  that  scene;  and  then  by  the  broken  English 
of  the  German  chess-player,  equally  blind  to  the 
divine  presence.  Compare  these  two  crude  testi- 
monies, which  make  the  ludicrous  blunders  made 
by  the  Hostess  in  that  marvellous  account  of  the 
death  of  Falstaff,  and  you  have  a  veritable  harmony 
of  the  Gospels.  Some  novelists  use  an  extraor- 
dinary style  to  describe  ordinary  events;  Mr.  De 
Morgan  uses  an  ordinary  style  to  describe  extraor- 
dinary events. 

Even  in  his  latest  book,  //  Never  Can  Happen 
Again,^  the  least  cheerful  of  all  his  productions, 
the  title  is  intended  to  be  as  comforting  as  Charles 
Reade's  caption.  It  Is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend. 
In  this  story,  Mr.  De  Morgan  descends  into  hell. 
Delirium  tremens  has  never  been  pictured  with  more 
frightful  horror  than  in  the  awful  night  when  the 
mad  wretch  is  bent  on  murder.     No  scene  in  any 

'  Through  the  kindness  of  Messrs.  Henry  Holt  and  Co.,  I  have 
had  the  privilege  of  reading  this  novel  in  proof  sheets. 

27 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

naturalistic  novel  surpasses  this  in  vivid  detail. 
Indeed,  all  of  Mr.  De  Morgan's  books  might  well 
be  circulated  as  anti-alcohol  tracts;  the  real  villain 
in  his  tragedies  is  Drink.  Even  though  drunkenness 
in  a  certain  aspect  supplies  comedy  in  Joseph  Vance, 
drink  is,  after  all,  the  ruin  of  old  Christopher,  and  we 
are  left  with  no  shade  of  doubt  that  this  is  so,  Mr. 
De  Morgan's  unquestionable  optimism  does  not 
blink  the  dreadful  aspects  of  life,  any  more  than 
did  Browning's.  The  scene  in  the  hospital,  where 
the  fingers  without  finger-nails  clasp  the  mighty 
hand  in  the  rubber  glove,  is  as  loathsomely  horrible 
as  anything  to  be  found  in  the  annals  of  disease. 
And  the  career  of  Blind  Jim,  entirely  ignorant  of 
his  divine  origin  and  destiny,  is  a  series  of  appalling 
calamities.  He  has  lost  his  sight  in  a  terrible  ac- 
cident; he  is  run  over  by  a  waggon,  and  loses  his 
leg;  he  is  run  over  by  an  automobile,  and  loses  his 
life.  He  has  also  lost,  though  he  does  not  know  it, 
what  is  far  dearer  to  him  than  eyes,  or  legs,  or  life, 
—  his  little  daughter.  And  yet  we  do  not  need 
the  spirit  voice  of  the  dead  child  to  assure  us  that 
all  is  well.  Indeed,  the  tragic  history  of  Jim  and 
Lizarann  is  not  nearly  so  depressing  as  the  hum- 
drum narrative  of  the  melancholy  quarrel  between 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Challis.  In  previous  novels,  the  author 
has  been  pleased  to  show  us  domestic  happiness; 
here  we  have  the  dreary  round  of  perpetual  discord. 

28 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 

Of  course  no  one  can  complain  of  Mr.  Dc  Morgan 
for  his  choice  in  this  matter;  it  is  certainly  true  that 
not  all  marriages  are  happy,  even  though  the  ma- 
jority of  them  (as  I  believe)  are.  The  difficulty 
is  that  the  triangle  in  this  book  —  husband,  wife* 
and  beautiful  young  lady  —  has  no  corner  of  real 
interest.  It  is  not  entirely  the  fault  of  either  Mr.  or 
Mrs.  Challis  that  they  separate;  there  is  much  to 
be  said  on  both  sides.  What  we  object  to  is  the 
fact  that  it  is  impossible  to  sympathise  with  either 
of  them;  this  is  not  because  each  is  guilty,  but 
because  neither  is  interesting.  We  do  not  much 
care  what  becomes  of  them.  And  as  for  Judith, 
the  technical  virgin  who  causes  all  the  trouble,  she 
is  a  very  dull  person.  We  do  not  need  this  book 
to  learn  that  female  beauty  without  brains  fascinates 
the  ordinary  man.  The  best  scenes  are  those  where 
Blind  Jim  and  Lizarann  appear;  they  are  a  couple 
fully  worthy  of  Dickens  at  his  best.  Unfortunately 
they  do  not  appear  often  enough  to  suit  us,  and  they 
both  die.  We  could  more  easily  have  spared  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Challis,  the  lattcr's  abominable  tea-gossip 
friend,  and  that  old  hypocritical  tiger-cat,  Mrs. 
Challis's  mother.  Why  does  Mr.  De  Morgan  make 
elderly  women  so  disgustingly  unattractive?  Does 
his  sympathy  with  life  desert  him  here?  The  entire 
Challis  household,  including  the  satellites  of  relation- 
ship and  propinquity,  are  hardly  worth  the  author's 

29 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

skill  or  the  reader's  attention.  One  would  suppose 
that  a  brilliant  novelist,  like  Challis,  pulled  from  the 
domestic  orbit  by  a  comet  like  Judith,  would  be 
for  a  time  in  an  interesting,  if  not  an  edifying,  posi- 
tion; but  he  is  not.  Perhaps  Mr.  De  Morgan 
wishes  to  show  with  the  impartiality  of  a  true 
chronicler  of  life  that  a  married  man,  drawn  away 
by  his  own  lust,  and  enticed,  can  be  just  as  dull  in 
sin  as  in  virtue.  Yet  the  long  dreary  family  storm 
ends  in  sunshine;  the  discordant  pair  are  redeemed 
by  Love,  —  the  real  motive  power  of  this  story,  — 
and  one  feels  that  it  can  never  happen  again.  In 
spite  of  Mr.  De  Morgan's  continual  onslaught  on 
creeds,  Athelstan  Taylor,  who  believes  the  whole 
Apostles'  Creed,  compares  very  favourably  with 
Challis,  who  believes  only  the  first  seven  and  the 
last  four  words  of  it,  apparently  the  portion  accepted 
by  Mr.  De  Morgan:  and  by  their  fruits  ye  shall 
know  them.  It  is  certainly  a  proof  of  the  fair- 
mindedness  of  our  novelist,  that  he  has  created 
orthodox  believers  like  Lossie's  husband  and  Athel- 
stan Taylor,  big  wholesome  fellows,  both  of  them; 
and  has  deliberately  made  both  so  irresistibly  at- 
tractive. The  professional  parson  is  often  ridiculed 
in  modern  novels;  it  is  worth  noting  that  in  this 
story  the  only  important  character  in  the  whole 
work  who  comljines  intelligence  with  virtue  is  the 
Reverend  Athelstan  Taylor. 

30 


WILLIAM   DE   MORGAN 

Seldom  have  any  books  shown  so  intimate  a 
knowledge  of  the  kingdom  of  this  world  and  at  the 
same  time  reflected  with  such  radiance  the  kingdom 
of  heaven.  It  is  noteworthy  and  encouraging  that 
a  man  who  portrays  with  such  humorous  exactitude 
the  things  that  are  seen  and  temporal,  should  exhibit 
so  firm  a  faith  in  the  things  that  are  unseen  and 
eternal.  In  Joseph  Vance  we  have  the  growth  of 
the  soul  from  an  environment  of  poverty  and  crime 
to  the  loftiest  heights  of  nobility  and  self-denial; 
and  the  theme  in  the  Waldstein  Sonata  triumphantly 
repeats  the  confidence  of  Dr.  Thorpe,  who  regards 
death  not  as  a  barrier,  but  as  a  gateway.  In  Alice- 
for-Short,  the  mystery  of  the  spirit-world  completely 
envelops  the  humdrum  inconsistencies  that  form 
the  daily  round,  the  trivial  task ;  this  is  seen  perhaps 
not  so  much  in  the  "ghosts,"  for  they  speak  of  the 
past;  but  the  figure  of  old  Verrinder  —  whose 
heart  revolves  about  the  Asylum  like  the  planet 
around  the  sun  —  and  the  waking  of  old  Jane  from 
her_.  long  sleep,  seem  to  symbolise  the  impotence 
of  Time  to  quench  the  divine  spark  of  Love.  This 
story  is  called  a  "  dichronism " ;  but  it  might  have 
been  called  a  dichroism,  for  from  one  viewpoint  it 
reflects  only  the  clouded  colour  of  earth,  and  from 
another  a  celestial  glory.  In  Somehow  Good  the 
ugliest  tragedy  takes  its  place  in  the  unapparent 
order  of  life.     It  is  not  that  good  finally  reigns  in 

31 


ESSAYS   ON  MODERN  NOVELISTS 

spite  of  evil ;  the  final  truth  is  that  in  some  manner 
good  is  the  very  goal  of  ill.  The  agony  of  separation 
has  tested  the  pure  metal  of  character;  and  the 
fusion  of  two  lives  is  made  permanent  in  the  fright- 
ful heat  of  awful  pain.  The  fruit  of  a  repulsive 
sin  may  be  Beauty,  like  a  flower  springing  from 
a  dung-hill.  "  What  became  of  the  baby  ?  .  .  . 
The  baby  —  his  baby  —  his  horrible  baby ! "  '*  Gerry 
darling!  Gerry  dearest!  do  think  .  .  ." 


39 


II 

THOMAS  HARDY 

The  father  of  Thomas  Hardy  wished  his  son  to 
enter  the  church,  and  this  object  was  the  remote 
goal  of  his  early  education.  At  just  what  period 
in  the  boy's  mental  development  Christianity  took 
on  the  form  of  a  meaningless  fable,  we  shall  perhaps 
never  know ;  but  after  a  time  he  ceased  to  have  even 
the  faith  of  a  grain  of  mustard  seed.  This  absence 
of  religious  belief  has  proved  no  obstacle  to  many 
another  candidate  for  the  Christian  ministry,  as 
every  habitual  church-goer  knows;  or  as  any  son 
of  Belial  may  discover  for  himself  by  merely  read- 
ing the  prospectus  of  summer  schools  of  theology. 
There  has,  however,  always  been  a  certain  cold, 
mathematical  precision  in  Mr.  Hardy's  way  of 
thought  that  would  have  made  him  as  uncom- 
fortable in  the  pulpit  as  he  would  have  been  in  an 
editor's  chair,  writing  for  salary  persuasive  articles 
containing  the  exact  opposite  of  his  individual 
convictions.  But,  although  the  beauty  of  holiness 
failed  to  impress  his  mind,  the  beauty  of  the  sane- 
ly 33 


ESSAYS   ON  MODERN  NOVELISTS 

tuary  was  sufficiently  ob\ious  to  his  sense  of  Art. 
He  became  an  ecclesiastical  architect,  and  for  some 
years  his  delight  was  in  the  courts  of  the  Lord. 
Instead  of  composing  sermons  in  ink,  he  made 
sermons  in  stones,  restoring  to  many  a  decaying 
edifice  the  outlines  that  the  original  builder  had 
seen  in  his  \dsion  centuries  ago.  For  no  one  has  ever 
regarded  ancient  churches  with  more  sympathy 
and  reverence  than  Mr.  Hardy.  No  man  to-day 
has  less  respect  for  God  and  more  devotion  to  His 
house. 

Mr.  Hardy's  professional  career  as  an  architect 
extended  over  a  period  of  about  thirteen  years,  from 
the  day  when  the  seventeen-year-old  boy  became 
articled,  to  about  1870,  when  he  forsook  the  pencil 
for  the  pen.  His  strict  training  as  an  architect  has 
been  of  enormous  service  to  him  in  the  construction 
of  his  novels,  for  skill  in  constructive  drawing  has 
repeatedly  proved  its  value  in  literature.  Rossetti 
achieved  positive  greatness  as  an  artist  and  as  a 
poet.  Stevenson's  studies  in  engineering  were  not 
lost  time,  and  Mr.  Dc  Morgan  affords  another 
good  illustration  of  the  same  fact.  Thackeray  was 
unconsciously  learning  the  art  of  the  novelist  while 
he  was  making  caricatures,  and  the  lesser  Thackeray 
of  a  later  day  —  George  du  Mauricr  —  found  the 
transition  from  one  art  to  the  other  a  natural  pro- 
gression.    Hopkinson  Smith  and  Frederic  Rcming- 

34 


THOMAS   HARDY 

ton,  on  a  lower  but  dignified  plane,  bear  witness 
to  the  same  truth.  Indeed,  when  one  studies  care- 
fully the  beginnings  of  the  work  of  imaginative 
writers,  one  is  surprised  at  the  great  number  who 
have  handled  an  artist's  or  a  draughtsman's  pencil. 
A  prominent  and  successful  playwright  of  to-day 
has  said  that  if  he  were  not  writing  plays,  he  should 
not  dream  of  writing  books;  he  would  be  building 
bridges. 

Mr.  Hardy's  work  as  an  ecclesiastical  architect 
laid  the  real  foundations  of  his  success  as  a  novelist; 
for  it  gave  him  an  intimate  familiarity  with  the  old 
monuments  and  rural  life  of  Wessex,  and  at  the  same 
time  that  eye  for  precision  of  form  that  is  so  notice- 
able in  all  his  books.  He  has  really  never  ceased 
to  be  an  architect.  Architecture  has  contributed 
largely  to  the  matter  and  to  the  style  of  his  stories. 
Two  architects  appear  in  his  first  novel.  In  A  Pair 
of  Blue  Eyes  Stephen  Smith  is  a  professional  archi- 
tect, and  in  coming  to  restore  the  old  Western 
Church  he  w^as  simply  repeating  the  experience  of 
his  creator.  No  one  of  Mr.  Hardy's  novels  contains 
more  of  the  facts  of  his  own  life  than  A  Laodicean, 
which  was  composed  on  what  the  author  then  be- 
lieved to  be  his  death-bed;  it  was  mainly  dictated, 
which  I  think  partly  accounts  for  its  difference  in 
style  from  the  other  talcs.  The  hero,  Somerset, 
is  an  architect  whose  first  meeting  with  his  future 

35 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

wife  occurs  through  his  professional  curiosity  con- 
cerning the  castle;  and  a  considerable  portion  of 
the  early  chapters  is  taken  up  with  architectural 
detail,  and  of  his  enforced  rivalry  wdth  a  competitor 
in  the  scheme  for  restoration.  Not  only  does  Mr. 
Hardy's  scientific  profession  speak  through  the 
mouths  of  his  characters,  but  old  and  beautiful 
buildings  adorn  his  pages  as  they  do  the  landscape 
he  loves.  In  Two  on  a  Tower  the  ancient  structure 
appears  here  and  there  in  the  story  as  naturally  and 
incidentally  as  it  would  to  a  pedestrian  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood ;  in  A  Pair  of  Blue  Eyes  the  church  tower 
plays  an  important  part  in  a  thrilling  episode,  and  its 
fall  emphasises  a  Scripture  text  in  a  diabolical  manner. 
The  old  church  at  Weatherbury  is  so  closely  as- 
sociated with  the  life  history  of  the  men  and  women 
in  Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd  that  as  one  stands 
in  front  of  it  to-day  the  people  seem  to  gather  again 
about   its   portal.  .  .  . 

But  while  Mr.  Hardy  has  drawn  freely  on  his 
knowledge  of  architecture  in  furnishing  animate 
and  inanimate  material  for  his  novels,  the  great 
results  of  his  youthful  training  are  seen  in  a  more 
subtle  and  profounder  influence.  The  intellectual 
delight  that  we  receive  in  the  perusal  of  his  books 
—  a  delight  that  sometimes  makes  us  impatient 
with  the  work  of  feebler  authors  —  comes  largely 
from   the   architectonics   of   his   literary  structures. 

36 


THOMAS   HARDY 

One  never  loses  sight  of  Hardy  the  architect.  In 
purely  constructive  skill  he  has  surpassed  all  his 
contemporaries.  His  novels  —  with  the  exception 
of  Desperate  Remedies  and  Jude  the  Obscure  —  are 
as  complete  and  as  beautiful  to  contemplate  as  a 
sculptor's  masterpiece.  They  are  finished  and  no- 
ble works  of  art,  and  give  the  same  kind  of  pleasure 
to  the  mind  as  any  superbly  perfect  outline.  Mr. 
Hardy  himself  firmly  believes  that  the  novel  should 
first  of  all  be  a  story :  that  it  should  not  be  a  thesis, 
nor  a  collection  of  reminiscences  or  obiter  dicta. 
He  insists  that  a  novel  should  be  as  much  of  a  whole 
as  a  living  organism,  where  all  the  parts  —  plot, 
dialogue,  character,  and  scenery  —  should  be  fitly 
framed  together,  giving  the  single  impression  of  a 
completely  harmonious  building.  One  simply  can- 
not imagine  him  writing  in  the  manner  of  a  German 
novelist,  with  absolutely  no  sense  of  proportion; 
nor  like  the  mighty  Tolstoi,  who  steadily  sacrifices 
Art  on  the  altar  of  Reality;  nor  like  the  great  English 
school  represented  by  Thackeray,  Dickens,  Trollope, 
and  De  Morgan,  whose  charm  consists  in  their  inti- 
macy with  the  reader;  they  will  interrupt  the  narrative 
constantly  to  talk  it  over  with  the  merest  bystander, 
thus  gaining  his  affection  while  destroying  the  illusion. 
Mr.  Hardy's  work  shows  a  sad  smcerity,  the  noble  aus- 
terity of  the  true  artist,  who  feels  the  dignity  of  his 
art  and  is  quite  willing  to  let  it  speak  for  itself. 

37 


ESSAYS   ON  MODERN  NOVELISTS 

His  earliest  novel,  Desperate  Remedies,  is  more 
like  an  architect's  first  crude  sketch  than  a  complete 
and  detailed  drawing.  Strength,  originality,  and 
a  thoroughly  intelligent  design  are  perfectly  clear; 
one  feels  the  impelling  mind  behind  the  product. 
But  it  resembles  the  plan  of  a  good  novel  rather 
than  a  novel  itself.  The  lines  are  hard;  there  is 
a  curious  rigidity  about  the  movement  of  the  plot 
which  proceeds  in  jerks,  like  a  machine  that  requires 
frequent  winding  up.  The  manuscript  was  sub- 
mitted to  a  publishing  firm,  who,  it  is  interesting 
to  remember,  handed  it  over  to  their  professional 
reader,  George  Meredith.  Mr.  Meredith  told  the 
young  author  that  his  work  was  promising;  and  he 
said  it  in  such  a  way  that  the  two  men  became  life- 
long friends,  there  being  no  more  jealousy  between 
them  than  existed  between  Tennyson  and  Browning. 
Years  later  Mr.  Meredith  said  that  he  regarded  Mr. 
Hardy  as  the  real  leader  of  contemporary  English 
novelists;  and  the  younger  man  always  maintained 
toward  his  literary  adviser  an  attitude  of  sincere 
reverence,  of  which  his  poem  on  the  octogenarian's 
death  was  a  beautiful  expression.  There  is  some- 
thing fine  in  the  honest  friendship  and  mutual 
admiration  of  two  giants,  who  cordially  recognise 
each  other  above  the  heads  of  the  crowd,  and  who 
are  themselves  placidly  unmoved  by  the  fierce 
jealousy  of  their  partisans.     In   this   instance,   de- 

38 


THOMAS   HARDY 

spite  a  total  unlikeness  in  literary  style,  there  was 
genuine  intellectual  kinship.  Mr.  Meredith  and 
Mr.  Hardy  were  both  Pagans  and  regarded  the  world 
and  men  and  women  from  the  Pagan  standpoint, 
though  the  deduction  in  one  case  was  optimism 
and  in  the  other  pessimism.  Given  the  premises, 
the  younger  writer's  conclusions  seem  more  logical; 
and  the  processes  of  his  mind  were  always  more 
orderly  than  those  of  his  brilliant  and  irregular 
senior.  There  is  little  doubt  (I  think)  as  to  which 
of  the  two  should  rank  higher  in  the  history  of  English 
fiction,  where  fineness  of  Art  surely  counts  for  some- 
thing. Mr.  Hardy  is  a  great  novelist;  whereas  to 
adapt  a  phrase  that  Arnold  applied  to  Emerson,  I 
should  say  that  Mr.  Meredith  was  not  a  great  novelist; 
he  was  a  great  man  who  wrote  novels. 

Immediately  after  the  publication  of  Desperate 
Remedies,  which  seemed  to  teach  him,  as  Endymion 
taught  Keats,  the  highest  mysteries  of  his  art,  Mr. 
Hardy  entered  upon  a  period  of  brilliant  and  splendid 
production.  In  three  successive  years,  1872,  1873, 
and  1874,  he  produced  three  masterpieces  —  Under 
the  Greenwood  Tree,  A  Pair  of  Blue  Eyes,  and  Far 
from  the  Madding  Crowd;  followed  four  years 
later  by  what  is,  perhaps,  his  greatest  contribution 
to  literature,  J'he  Return  of  the  Native.  Even  in 
literary  careers  that  last  a  long  time,  there  seem  to 
be  golden  days  when  the  inspiration  is  unbalked  by 

39 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

obstacles.  It  is  interesting  to  contemplate  the 
lengthy  row  of  Scott's  novels,  and  then  to  remember 
that  The  Heart  of  Midlothian,  The  Bride  of  Lqm- 
mermoor  and  Ivanhoe  were  published  in  three  suc- 
cessive years;  to  recall  that  the  same  brief  span 
covered  in  George  EHot's  work  the  production  of 
Scenes  of  Clerical  Life,  Adam  Bede,  and  TJie  Mill 
on  the  Floss;  and  one  has  only  to  compare  what 
Mr.  Kipling  accompHshed  in  1888,  1889,  and  1890 
with  any  other  triennial,  to  discover  when  he  had 
what  the  Methodists  call  "liberty."  Mr.  Hardy's 
career  as  a  writer  has  covered  about  forty  years; 
omitting  his  collections  of  short  tales,  he  has  written 
fourteen  novels;  from  1870  to  1880,  inclusive,  seven 
appeared;  from  1881  to  1891,  five;  from  1892  to 
1902,  two;  since  1897  he  has  published  no  novels 
at  all.  With  that  singular  and  unfortunate  perver- 
sity which  makes  authors  proudest  of  their  lamest 
offspring,  Mr.  Hardy  has  apparently  abandoned  the 
novel  for  poetry  and  the  poetic  drama.  I  suspect 
that  praise  of  his  verse  is  sweeter  to  him  than 
praise  of  his  fiction;  but,  although  his  poems  are 
interesting  for  their  ideas,  and  although  we  all  like 
the  huge  Dynasts  better  than  we  did  when  we  first 
saw  it,  it  is  a  great  pity  from  the  economic  point  of 
view  that  the  one  man  who  can  write  novels  better 
than  anybody  else  in  the  same  language  should  de- 
liberately choose  to  write  something  else  in  which 

40 


THOMAS   HARDY 

he  is  at  his  very  best  only  second  rate.  The  world 
suffers  the  same  kind  of  economic  loss  (less  only  in 
degree)  that  it  suffered  when  Milton  spent  twenty 
years  of  his  life  in  writing  prose;  and  when  Tolstoi 
forsook  novels  for  theology. 

It  is  probable  that  one  reason  why  Mr.  Hardy 
quit  novel-writing  was  the  hostile  reception  that 
greeted  Jude  the  Obscure.  Every  great  author, 
except  Tennyson,  has  been  able  to  endure  adverse 
criticism,  whether  he  hits  back,  like  Pope  and  Byron, 
or  whether  he  proceeds  on  his  way  in  silence.  But 
no  one  has  ever  enjoyed  or  ever  will  enjoy  misrep- 
resentation; and  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  writer 
of  Jude  felt  that  he  had  been  cruelly  misunderstood. 
It  is,  I  think,  the  worst  novel  he  has  ever  written, 
both  from  the  moral  and  from  the  artistic  point  of 
view;  but  the  novelist  was  just  as  sincere  in  his 
intention  as  when  he  wrote  the  earher  books.  The 
difficulty  is  that  something  of  the  same  change 
had  taken  place  in  his  work  that  is  so  noticeable  in 
that  of  Bjornson;  he  had  ceased  to  be  a  pure  artist 
and  had  become  a  propagandist.  The  fault  that 
marred  the  splendid  novel  Tess  of  the  D^Urbervilles 
ruined  Jude  tJte  Obscure.  When  Mr.  Hardy  wrote 
on  the  title-page  of  Tess  the  words,  "  A  Pure  Woman 
Faithfully  Presented,"  he  issued  defiantly  the  name 
of  a  thesis  which  the  story  (great,  in  spite  of  this) 
was  intended  to  defend.     To  a  certain  extent,  his 

41 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

interest  in  the  argument  blinded  his  artistic  sense; 
otherwise  he  would  never  have  committed  the  error 
of  hanging  his  heroine.  The  mere  hanging  of  a 
heroine  may  not  be  in  itself  an  artistic  blunder, 
for  Shakespeare  hanged  Cordelia.  But  Mr.  Hardy 
executed  Tess  because  he  was  bound  to  see  his  thesis 
through.  In  the  prefaces  to  subsequent  editions  the 
author  turned  on  his  critics,  calling  them  "sworn 
discouragers  of  effort,"  a  phrase  that  no  doubt 
some  of  them  deserved;  and  then,  like  many  an- 
other man  who  believes  in  himself,  he  punished  both 
critics  and  the  public  in  the  Rehoboam  method  by 
issuing  Jude  the  Obscure.  Instead  of  being  a  master- 
piece of  despair,  like  The  Return  of  the  Native,  this 
book  is  a  shriek  of  rage.  Pessimism,  which  had  been 
a  noble  ground  quality  of  his  earlier  writings,  is 
in  Jude  merely  hysterical  and  wholly  unconvincing. 
The  author  takes  obvious  pains  to  make  things  come 
out  wrong;  as  in  melodramas  and  childish  romances, 
the  law  of  causation  is  suspended  in  the  interest  of 
the  hero's  welfare.  Animalism,  which  had  partially 
disfigured  Tess,  became  gross  and  revolting  in  Jude ; 
and  the  representation  of  marriage  and  the  relations 
between  men  and  women,  instead  of  being  a  picture 
of  life,  resembled  a  caricature.  It  is  a  matter  of 
sincere  regret  that  Mr.  Hardy  has  stopped  novel- 
writing,  but  we  want  no  more  Judes.  Didactic 
pessimism  is  not  good  for  the  novel. 

42 


THOMAS   HARDY 

The  Well-Beloved,  published  in  1897,  but  really 
a  revision  of  an  earlier  tale,  is  in  a  way  a  triumph 
of  Art.  The  plot  is  simply  absurd,  almost  as  whim- 
sical as  anything  in  Alice  in  Wonderland.  A  man 
proposes  to  a  young  girl  and  is  rejected;  when  her 
daughter  is  grown,  he  proposes  to  the  representative 
of  the  second  generation,  and  with  the  same  ill  fortune. 
When  her  daughter  reaches  maturity,  he  tries  the 
third  woman  in  line  and  without  success.  His 
perseverance  was  equalled  only  by  his  bad  luck, 
as  so  often  happens  in  Mr.  Hardy's  stories.  And 
yet,  with  a  plot  that  would  wreck  any  other  novelist, 
the  author  constructed  a  powerful  and  beautifully 
written  novel.  It  is  as  though  the  architect  had 
taken  a  wretched  plan  and  yet  somehow  contrived 
to  erect  on  its  false  lines  a  handsome  building. 
The  book  has  naturally  added  nothing  to  his  repu- 
tation, but  as  a  tour  de  force  it  is  hard  to  surpass. 

It  is  pleasant  to  remember  that  a  man's  opinion 
of  his  own  work  has  nothing  to  do  with  its  final 
success  and  that  his  best  creations  cannot  be  injured 
by  his  worst.  Tolstoi  may  be  ashamed  of  having 
written  Anna  Karenina,  and  may  insist  that  his 
sociological  tracts  are  superior  productions,  but  we 
know  better;  and  rejoice  in  his  powerlessness  to 
efface  his  own  masterpieces.  We  may  honestly 
think  that  we  should  be  ashamed  to  put  our  own 
names  to  such  stuff  as  Little  Dorrit,  but  that  does  not 

43 


ESSAYS   ON  MODERN   NOVELISTS 

prevent  us  from  admiring  the  splendid  genius  that 
produced  David  Copperfield  and  Great  Expectations. 
Mr.  Hardy  may  believe  that  Jude  the  Obscure  rep- 
resents his  zenith  as  a  novelist,  and  that  his  poems 
are  still  greater  literature;  but  one  reading  of  Jude 
suffices,  while  we  never  tire  of  rereading  Far  from 
the  Madding  Crowd  and  The  Return  of  the  Native. 
Probably  no  publisher's  announcement  in  the  world 
to-day  would  cause  more  pleasure  to  English- 
speaking  people  than  the  announcement  that  Thomas 
Hardy  was  at  work  on  a  Wessex  novel  with  char- 
acters of  the  familiar  kind. 

For  The  Dynasts,  which  covers  the  map  of  Europe, 
transcends  the  sky,  and  deals  with  world-con- 
querors,  is  not  nearly  so  great  a  world-drama  as 
A  Pair  of  Blue  Eyes,  that  is  circumscribed  in  a  small 
comer  of  a  small  island,  and  treats  exclusively  of 
a  little  group  of  commonplace  persons.  Literature 
deals  with  a  constant  —  human  nature,  which  is  the 
same  in  Wessex  as  in  Vienna.  As  the  late  Mr. 
Clyde  Fitch  used  to  say,  it  is  not  the  great  writers 
that  have  great  things  happen  to  them;  the  great 
things  happen  to  the  ordinary  people  they  portray. 
Mr.  Hardy  selected  a  few  of  the  southwestern 
counties  of  England  as  the  stage  for  his  prose  dramas; 
to  this  locality  he  for  the  first  time,  in  Far  from  tlte 
Madding  Crowd,  gave  the  name  Wessex,  a  name 
now  wholly  fictitious,  but  which  his  creative  im- 

44 


THOMAS   HARDY 

agination  has  made  so  real  that  it  is  constantly 
and  seriously  spoken  of  as  though  it  were  English 
geography.  In  these  smiling  valleys  and  quiet 
rural  scenes,  "while  the  earth  keeps  up  her  terrible 
composure,"  the  farmers  and  milkmaids  hold  us 
spellbound  as  they  struggle  in  awful  passion.  The 
author  of  the  drama  stands  aloof,  making  no  effort 
to  guide  his  characters  from  temptation,  folly,  and 
disaster,  and  offering  no  explanation  to  the  spectators, 
who  are  thrilled  with  pity  and  fear.  But  one  feels 
that  he  loves  and  hates  his  children  as  we  do,  and 
that  he  correctly  gauges  their  moral  value.  The 
very  narrowness  of  the  scene  increases  the  intensity 
of  the  play.  The  rustic  cackle  of  his  bourg  drowns 
the  murmur  of  the  world. 

Mr.  Hardy's  knowledge  of  and  sympathy  with 
nature  is  of  course  obvious  to  all  readers,,  but  it  is. 
none  the  less  impressive  as  we  once  more  open 
books  that  we  have  read  many  times.  There  are 
incidentally  few  novelists  who  repay  one  so  richly 
for  repeated  perusals.  He  seems  as  inexhaustible 
as  nature  herself,  and  he  grows  stale  no  faster  than 
the  repetition  of  the  seasons.  It  is  perhaps  rather 
curious  that  a  man  who  finds  nature  so  absolutely 
inexorable  and  indifferent  to  human  suffering  should 
love  her  so  well.  But  every  man  must  love  some- 
thing greater  than  himself,  and  as  Mr.  Hardy  had 
no  God,  he  has  drawn  close  to  the  world  of  trees, 

45 


ESSAYS   ON  MODERN  NOVELISTS 

plains,  and  rivers.  His  intimacy  with  nature  is 
almost  uncanny.  Nature  is  not  merely  a  back- 
groimd  in  his  stories,  it  is  often  an  active  agent. 
There  are  striking  characters  in  The  Return  of  the 
Native,  but  the  greatest  character  in  the  book  is 
Egdon  Heath.  The  opening  chapter,  which  gives 
the  famous  picture  of  the  Heath,  is  like  an  overture 
to  a  great  music-drama.  The  Heath-motif  is  re- 
peated again  and  again  in  the  story.  It  has  a  per- 
sonality of  its  own,  and  affects  the  fortunes  and  the 
hearts  of  all  human  beings  who  dwell  in  its  proximity. 
If  one  stands  to-day  on  the  edge  of  this  Heath  at 
the  twilight  hour,  just  at  the  moment  when  Dark- 
ness is  conquering  Light  —  the  moment  chosen 
by  Mr.  Hardy  for  the  first  chapter  —  one  realises 
its  significance  and  its  possibilities.  In  Tess  of  the 
D'Urbervilles  the  intercourse  between  man  and 
nature  is  set  forth  with  amazing  power.  The  dif- 
ferent seasons  act  as  chorus  to  the  human  tragedy. 
In  The  Woodlanders  the  trees  seem  like  separate 
individualities.  To  me  a  tree  has  become  a  different 
thing  since  I  first  read  this  particular  novel. 

Even  before  he  took  up  the  study  of  architecture, 
Mr.  Hardy's  unconscious  training  as  a  novelist 
began.  When  he  was  a  small  boy,  the  Dorchester 
girls  found  him  useful  in  a  way  that  recalls  the 
services  of  that  reliable  child,  Samuel  Richardson. 
These  village  maids,  in   their  various  love-affairs, 

46 


THOMAS   HARDY 

which  necessitated  a  large  amount  of  private  corre- 
spondence, employed  young  Hardy  as  amanuensis. 
He  did  not,  like  his  great  predecessor,  compose  their 
epistles;  but  he  held  the  pen,  and  faithfully  re- 
corded the  inspiration  of  Love,  as  it  flowed  warm 
from  the  lips  of  passionate  youth.  In  this  manner, 
the  almost  sexless  boy  was  enabled  to  look  clear-eyed 
into  the  very  heart  of  palpitating  young  womanhood, 
and  to  express  accurately  its  most  gentle  and  most 
stormy  emotions;  just  as  the  white  voice  of  a  choir- 
child  repeats  with  precision  the  thrilling  notes  of 
religious  passion.  These  early  experiences  were  un- 
doubtedly of  the  highest  value  in  later  years;  indeed, 
as  the  boy  grew  a  little  older,  it  is  probable  that  the 
impression  deepened.  Mr.  Hardy  is  fond  of  de- 
picting the  vague,  half-conscious  longing  of  a  boy 
to  be  near  a  beautiful  woman;  everyone  will  re- 
member the  contract  between  Eustacia  and  her 
youthful  admirer,  by  which  he  was  to  hold  her  hand 
for  a  stipulated  number  of  minutes.  Mr.  Hardy's 
women  are  full  of  tenderness  and  full  of  caprice; 
and  whatever  feminine  readers  may  think  of  them, 
they  are  usually  irresistible  to  the  masculine  mind. 
It  has  been  said,  indeed,  that  he  is  primarily  a  man's 
novelist,  as  Mrs.  Ward  is  perhaps  a  woman's;  he 
does  not  represent  his  women  as  marvels  of  intel- 
lectual splendour,  or  in  queenly  domination  over  the 
society  in  which  they  move.     They  are  more  apt  to 

47 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

be  the  victims  of  their  own  affectionate  hearts.  One 
female  reader,  exasperated  at  this  succession  of 
portraits,  wrote  on  the  margin  of  one  of  Mr.  Hardy's 
novels  that  she  took  from  a  circulating  library,  "  Oh, 
how  I  hate  Thomas  Hardy!"  This  is  an  interest- 
ing gloss,  even  if  we  do  not  add  meanly  that  it  bears 
witness  to  the  truth  of  the  picture.  Elfride,  Bath- 
sheba,  Eustacia,  Lady  Constantine,  Marty  South, 
and  Tess  are  of  varied  social  rank  and  wealth;  but 
they  are  all  alike  in  humble  prostration  before  the 
man  they  love.  Mr.  Hardy  takes  particular  pleasure 
in  representing  them  as  swayed  by  sudden  and  con- 
stantly changing  caprices;  one  has  only  to  recall 
the  charming  Bathsheba  Everdene,  and  her  various 
attitudes  toward  the  three  men  who  admire  her  — 
Troy,  Boldwood,  and  Gabriel  Oak.  Mr.  Hardy's 
heroines  change  their  minds  oftener  than  they  change 
their  clothes;  but  in  whatever  material  or  mental 
presentment,  they  never  lack  attraction.  And  they 
all  resemble  their  maker  in  one  respect;  at  heart 
every  one  of  them  is  a  Pagan.  They  vary  greatly 
in  constancy  and  in  general  strength  of  character; 
but  it  is  human  passion,  and  not  religion,  that  is  the 
mainspring  of  their  lives.  He  has  never  drawn  a 
truly  spiritual  woman,  like  Browning's  Pompilia. 

His  best  men,  from  the  moral  point  of  view,  are 
closest  to  the  soil.  Galjriel  Oak,  in  Far  from  the 
Madding  Crowd,  and  Venn,  in  The  Return  of  the 

48 


THOMAS   HARDY 

Native,  are,  on  the  whole,  his  noblest  characters. 
Oak  is  a  shepherd  and  Venn  is  a  reddleman;  their 
sincerity,  charity,  and  fine  sense  of  honour  have  never 
been  injured  by  what  is  called  polite  society.  And 
Mr.  Hardy,  the  stingiest  author  toward  his  char- 
acters, has  not  entirely  withheld  reward  from  these 
two.  Henry  Knight  and  Angel  Clare,  who  have 
whatever  advantages  civilisation  is  supposed  to 
give,  are  certainly  not  villains;  they  are  men  of  the 
loftiest  ideals;  but  if  each  had  been  a  deliberate 
black-hearted  villain,  he  could  not  have  treated  the 
innocent  woman  who  loved  him  with  more  ugly 
cruelty.  Compared  with  Oak  and  Venn,  this 
precious  pair  of  prigs  are  seen  to  have  only  the 
righteousness  of  the  Scribes  and  Pharisees;  a  right- 
eousness that  is  of  litde  help  in  the  cruel  emergencies 
of  life.  Along  with  them  must  stand  Clym  Yeo- 
bright,  another  slave  to  moral  theory,  who  quite 
naturally  ends  his  days  as  an  itinerant  preacher. 
The  real  villains  in  Mr.  Hardy's  novels,  Sergeant 
Troy,  young  Dare,  and  Alec  D'Urberville,  seem  the 
least  natural  and  the  most  machine-made  of  all 
his  characters. 

Mr.  Hardy's  pessimism  is  a  picturesque  and  splen- 
did contribution  to  modem  fiction.  We  should  be 
as  grateful  for  it  in  this  field  as  we  are  to  Schopen- 
hauer in  the  domain  of  metaphysics.  I  am  no  pes- 
simist myself,  but  I  had  rather  read  Schopenhauer 
E.  49 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

than  all  the  rest  of  the  philosophers  put  together, 
Plato  alone  excepted.  The  pessimism  of  Mr. 
Hardy  Tesembles  that  of  Schopenhatie'F  in  being 
absolutely  thorough  and  absolutely  candid;  it 
makes  the  world  as  darkly  superb  and  as  terribly 
interesting  as  a  Greek  drama.  It  is  wholly  worth 
while  to  get  this  point  of  view;  and  if  in  practical 
life  one  does  not  really  believe  in  it,  it  is  capable  of 
yielding  much  pleasure.  After  finishing  one  of 
Mr.  Hardy's  novels,  one  has  all  the  delight  of  waking 
from  an  impressive  but  horrible  dream,  and  feeling 
through  the  dissolving  vision  the  real  friendliness 
of  the  good  old  earth.  It  is  like  coming  home  from 
an  adequate  performance  of  King  Lear,  which  we 
would  not  have  missed  for  anything.  /  There  are 
so  many  make-believe  pessimists,  so  many  whose 
pessimism  is  a  sham  and  a  pose,  which  will  not  stand 
for  a  moment  in  a  real  crisis,  that  we  cannot  with- 
hold admiration  for  such  pessimism  as  Mr.  Hardy's, 
which  is  fundamental  and  sincere  To  him  the 
Christian  religion  and  what  we  call  the  grace  of  God 
have  not  the  slightest  shade  of  meaning;  he  is  as 
absolute  a  Pagan  as  though  he  had  written  four 
thousand  years  before  Christ.  This  is  something 
almost  refreshing,  because  it  is  so  entirely  different 
from  the  hypocrisy  and  cant,  the  pretence  of  pes- 
simism, so  familiar  to  us  in  the  works  of  modern 
writers;    and  so  inconsistent  with  their  daily  life. 

SO 


THOMAS   HARDY 

Mr.  Hardy's  pessimism  is  the  one  deep-seated  con- 
viction of  his  whole  intellectual  process.  ) 

I  once  saw  a  print  of  a  cartoon  drawn  by  a  con- 
temporary Dresden  artist,  Herr  Sascha  Schneider. 
It  was  called  "The  Helplessness  of  Man  against 
Destiny."  We  see  a  quite  naked  man,  standing 
with  his  back  to  us;  his  head  is  bowed  in  hopeless 
resignation;  heavy  manacles  are  about  his  wrists, 
to  which  chains  are  attached,  that  lead  to  some 
fastening  in  the  ground.  Directly  before  him,  with 
hideous  hands,  that  now  almost  entirely  surround 
the  little  circle  where  he  stands  in  dejection,  crawls 
flatly  toward  him  a  prodigious,  shapeless  monster, 
with  his  horrid  narrow  eyes  fixed  on  his  defenceless 
human  prey.  And  the  man  is  so  conscious  of  his 
tether,  that  even  in  the  very  presence  of  the  unspeak- 
ably awful  object,  the  chains  hang  loose!  He  may 
have  tried  them  once,  but  he  has  since  given  up. 
The  monster  is  Destiny;  and  the  real  meaning  of 
the  picture  is  seen  in  the  eyes,  nose,  and  mouth  of 
the  loathsome  beast.  There  is  not  only  no  sympathy 
and  no  intelligence  there;  there  is  an  expression 
far  more  terrible  than  the  evident  lust  to  devour; 
there  is  plainly  the  sense  of  humour  shown  on  this 
hideous  face.  The  contrast  between  the  limitless 
strength  of  the  monster  and  the  utter  weakness  of 
the  man,  flavours  the  stupidity  of  Destiny  with  the 
zest  of  humour. 

SI 


ESSAYS   ON  MODERN   NOVELISTS 

Now  this  is  a  correct  picture  of  life  as  Mr,  Hardy 
sees  it.  His  God  is  a  kind  of  insane  child,  who 
cackles  foolishly  as  he  destroys  the  most  precious 
objects.  Some  years  ago  I  met  a  man  entirely 
blind.  He  said  that  early  in  life  he  had  lost  the 
sight  of  one  eye  by  an  accident;  and  that  years  later, 
as  he  held  a  little  child  on  his  lap,  the  infant,  in  rare 
good  humour,  playfully  poked  the  point  of  a  pair 
of  scissors  into  the  other,  thus  destroying  his  sight 
for  ever.  So  long  an  interval  had  elapsed  since  this 
second  and  final  catastrophe,  that  the  man  spoke 
of  it  without  the  slightest  excitement  or  resentment. 
The  child  with  the  scissors  might  well  represent 
Hardy's  conception  of  God.  Destiny  is  whimsical, 
rather  than  definitely  malicious;  for  Destiny  has 
not  sufficient  intelligence  even  to  be  systematically 
bad.  We  smile  at  Caliban's  natural  theology,  as 
he  composes  his  treatise  on  Setebos;  but  his  God 
is  the  same  who  disposes  of  man's  proposals  in  the 
stories  of  our  novelist. 

"In  which  feat,  if  his  leg  snapped,  brittle  clay, 
And  he  lay  stupid-like,  —  why,  I  should  laugh; 
And  if  he,  spying  me,  should  fall  to  weep, 
Beseech  me  to  be  good,  repair  his  wrong, 
Bid  his  poor  leg  smart  less  or  grow  again,  — 
Well,  as  the  chance  were,  this  might  take  or  else 
Not  take  my  fancy.  .  .  . 

'Thinkcth,  such  shows  nor  right  nor  wrong  in  Him, 
Nor  kind,  nor  cruel:   He  is  strong  and  Lord." 

52 


THOMAS   HARDY 

Mr.  Hardy  believes  that,  morally,  men  and  women 
are  immensely  superior  to  God;  for  all  the  good 
qualities  that  we  attribute  to  Him  in  prayer  are 
human,  not  divine.  He  in  his  loneliness  is  totally 
devoid  of  the  sense  of  right  and  wrong,  and  knows 
neither  justice  nor  mercy.  His  poem  New  Yearns 
Eve  *  clearly  expresses  his  theology. 

Mr.  Hardy's  pessimism  is  not  in  the  least  personal, 
nor  has  it  risen  from  any  sorrow  or  disappointment 
in  his  own  life.  It  is  both  philosophic  and  tem- 
peramental. He  cannot  see  nature  in  any  other 
way.  To  venture  a  guess,  I  think  his  pessimism  is 
mainly  caused  by  his  deep,  manly  tenderness  for 
all  forms  of  human  and  animal  life  and  by  an  almost 
abnormal  sympathy.  His  intense  love  for  bird  and 
beast  is  well  knovm;  many  a  stray  cat  and  hurt 
dog  have  found  in  him  a  protector  and  a  refuge. 
He  firmly  believes  that  the  sport  of  shooting  is  wicked, 
and  he  has  repeatedly  joined  in  practical  measures 
to  waken  the  public  conscience  on  this  subject. 
As  a  spectator  of  human  history,  he  sees  life  as  a 
vast  tragedy,  with  men  and  women  emerging  from 
nothingness,  suffering  acute  physical  and  mental 
sorrow,  and  then  passing  into  nothingness  again. 
To  his  sympathetic  mind,  the  creed  of  optimism 
is  a  ribald  insult  to  the  pain  of  humanity  and  devout 
piety  merely  absurd.    To  hear  these  suffering  men 

'  See  Appendix. 

53 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

and  women  utter  prayers  of  devotion  and  sing  hymns 
of  adoration  to  the  Power  whence  comes  all  their 
anguish  is  to  him  a  veritable  abdication  of  reason 
and  common  sense.  God  simply  does  not  deserve 
it,  and  he  for  one  will  have  the  courage  to  say  so. 
He  will  not  stand  by  and  see  humanity  submit  so 
tamely  to  so  heartless  a  tyrant.  For,  although  Mr. 
Hardy  is  a  pessimist,  he  has  not  the  least  tincture 
of  cynicism.  If  one  analyses  his  novels  carefully, 
one  will  see  that  he  seldom  shows  scorn  for  his 
characters;  his  contempt  is  almost  exclusively  de- 
voted to  God.  Sometimes  the  evil  fate  that  his 
characters  suflfer  is  caused  by  the  very  composition 
of  their  mind,  as  is  seen  in  A  Pair  of  Blue  Eyes; 
again  it  is  no  positive  human  agency,  but  rather  an 
iEschylean  conception  of  hidden  forces,  as  in  T}ie 
Return  of  the  Native;  but  in  neither  case  is  humanity 
to  blame. 

This  pessimism  has  one  curious  effect  that  adds 
greatly  to  the  reader's  interest  when  he  takes  up  an 
hitherto  unread  novel  by  our  author.  The  majority 
of  works  of  fiction  end  happily;  indeed,  many  are 
so  badly  written  that  any  ending  carmot  be  con- 
sidered unfortunate.  But  with  most  novelists  we 
have  a  sense  of  security.  We  know  that,  no  matter 
what  difficulties  the  hero  and  heroine  may  encounter, 
the  unseen  hand  of  their  maker  will  guide  them 
eventually  to  paths  of  pleasantness  and  peace.    Mr. 

54 


THOMAS   HARDY 

Hardy  inspires  no  such  confidence.  In  reading 
Trollope,  one  smiles  at  a  cloud  of  danger,  knowing 
it  will  soon  pass  over;  but  after  reading  A  Fair  of 
Blue  Eyes,  or  Tess,  one  follows  the  fortunes  of  young 
Somerset  in  A  Laodicean  with  constant  fluctuation  of 
faint  hope  and  real  terror;  for  we  know  that  with 
Mr.  Hardy  the  worst  may  happen  at  any  moment. 
However  dark  may  be  his  conception  of  life,  Mr. 
Hardy's  sense  of  humour  is  unexcelled  by  his  con- 
temporaries in  its  subtlety  of  feeling  and  charm  of 
expression.  His  rustics,  who  have  long  received 
and  deserved  the  epithet  "Shakespearian,"  arouse 
in  every  reader  harmless  and  wholesome  delight. 
The  shadow  of  the  tragedy  lifts  in  these  wonderful 
pages,  for  Mr.  Hardy's  laughter  reminds  one  of 
what  Carlyle  said  of  Shakespeare's:  it  is  like  sun- 
shine on  the  deep  sea.  The  childlike  sincerity  of 
these  shepherd  farmers,  the  candour  of  their  rep- 
artee and  their  appraisal  of  gentle-folk  are  as  irre- 
sistible as  their  patience  and  equable  temper.  Every- 
one in  the  community  seems  to  find  his  proper 
mental  and  moral  level.  And  their  infrequent  fits 
of  irritation  are  as  pleasant  as  their  more  solermi 
moods.  We  can  all  sympathise  (I  hope)  with  the 
despair  of  Joseph  Poorgrass:  "I  was  sitting  at  home 
looking  for  Ephesians  and  says  I  to  myself,  'Tis 
nothing  but  Corinthians  and  Thessalonians  in  this 
danged  Testament!" 

55 


Ill 

WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS 

Born  in  a  little  village  in  Ohio  over  seventy  years 
ago,  and  growing  up  with  small  Latin  and  less  Greek, 
Mr.  Howells  may  fairly  be  called  a  self-educated 
man.  Just  why  the  epithet  "self-made"  should 
be  applied  to  those  non-college-graduates  who 
succeed  in  business,  and  withheld  from  those  who 
succeed  in  poetry  and  fiction,  seems  not  entirely 
clear.  Perhaps  it  is  tacitly  assumed  that  those  who 
become  captains  of  industry  achieve  prominence 
without  divine  assistance;  whereas  men  of  letters, 
with  or  without  early  advantages,  and  whether 
grateful  or  not,  have  unconscious  communication 
with  hidden  forces.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  boy 
Howells  had  little  schooling  and  no  college.  All 
the  public  institutions  in  the  world,  however,  are 
but  a  poor  makeshift  in  the  absence  of  good  home 
training;  and  the  future  novelist's  father  was  the 
right  sort  of  man  and  had  the  right  sort  of  occupa- 
tion to  stimulate  a  clever  and  ambitious  son.  The 
elder  Howells  was  the  editor  of  a  country  news- 

56 


WILLIAM   DEAN   HOWELLS 

paper,  which,  like  a  country  doctor,  makes  up  in 
variety  of  information  what  it  loses  in  spread  of 
influence.  The  boy  was  a  compositor  before  he 
was  a  composer,  as  plenty  of  literary  men  since 
Richardson  have  been;  he  helped  to  set  up  lyrics, 
news  items,  local  gossip,  the  funny  column,  and 
patent  medicine  advertisements.  From  mechanical 
he  passed  to  original  work,  both  in  his  father's 
office  and  in  other  sanctums  about  the  state;  some- 
times acting  not  only  as  contributor,  but  "mould- 
ing public  opinion"  from  the  editor's  chair.  And 
indeed  he  has  never  entirely  stepped  out  of  the 
editorial  role.  During  an  amazingly  busy  life  as 
novelist,  dramatist,  poet,  and  foreign  diplomat, 
Mr.  Howells  has  acted  as  editorial  writer  on  the 
Nation,  the  Atlantic,  the  Cosmopolitan  Magazine, 
and  Harpefs  Monthly.  I  think  he  would  some- 
times be  appalled  at  the  prodigious  amount  of 
merely  "timely"  articles  that  he  has  written,  were 
it  not  for  the  fact  that  during  his  long  career  he  has 
never  published  a  single  line  of  which  he  need  feel 
ashamed. 

Type-setters  and  printers  are  commonly  men  of 
ideas,  who  have  interesting  minds,  and  are  good  to 
talk  with.  Mr.  Howells  was  certainly  no  exception 
to  thp  rule,  and  to  the  foundation  of  his  early  educa- 
tion as  a  compositor  and  journalist  he  added  four 
years  of  study  of  the  Italian  language  and  literature 

57 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

in  the  pleasant  environment  of  Venice.  He  has 
always  been  a  man  of  peace;  and  it  is  interesting 
to  remember  that  during  the  four  years  of  tumultuous 
and  bloody  civil  war,  Mr.  Howells  was  serving  his 
country  as  a  United  States  Consul  in  Italy,  and  at 
the  same  time  preparing  to  add  to  the  kind  of  fame 
she  most  sorely  needs.  The  ''woman-country" 
never  meant  to  him  what  it  signified  to  Browning; 
but  it  has  always  been  an  inspiration,  and  he  would 
have  been  a  different  person  without  this  foreign 
influence.  Besides  some  critical  and  scholarly 
works  on  Italian  literature,  much  of  his  subsequent 
writing  has  been  done  beyond  the  Alps,  and  the 
plot  of  one  of  his  foremost  novels  develops  on  the 
streets  of  Florence,  And  in  another  and  wholly 
delightful  story,  we  have  the  keen  pleasure  of  seeing 
Italian  life  and  society  through  the  eyes  of  Lydia 
Blood. 

He  formally  began  a  literary  career  by  the  com- 
position of  a  volume  of  poems,  as  Blackmore,  Hardy, 
Meredith,  and  many  other  novelists  have  seen  fit 
to  do.  He  is  not  widely  known  as  a  poet  to-day, 
though  all  his  life  he  has  written  more  or  less  verse 
without  achieving  distinction;  for  he  is  essentially 
a  prosaieur.  In  1872,  twelve  years  after  the  ap- 
pearance of  his  book  of  poems,  came  his  first  suc- 
cessful novel,  Their  Wedding  Journey.  This  story 
is  written  in  the  style  that  is  responsible  for  its 

58 


WILLIAM   DEAN  HOWELLS 

author's  fame  and  popularity;  it  is  thoroughly 
typical  of  the  whole  first  part  of  his  novel-production. 
It  has  that  quiet  stingless  humour,  clever  dialogue, 
and  wholesome  charm,  that  all  readers  of  Mr. 
Howells  associate  with  his  name.  In  other  words, 
it  is  a  clear  manifestation  of  his  own  personality. 
Now  as  to  the  permanent  value  and  final  place  in 
literature  of  these  American  novels,  critics  may 
differ;  but  there  can  be  only  one  opinion  of  the  man 
who  wrote  them. 

The  personality  of  Mr.  Howells,  as  shown  both 
in  his  objective  novels  and  in  his  subjective  literary 
confessions,  is  one  that  irresistibly  commands  our 
highest  respect  and  our  warmest  affection.  A 
simple,  democratic,  unaffected,  modest,  kindly, 
humorous,  healthy  soul,  with  a  rare  combination 
of  rugged  virility  and  extreme  refinement.  It  is 
exceedingly  fortunate  for  America  that  such  a  man 
has  for  so  many  years  by  common  consent,  at  home 
and  abroad,  been  regarded  as  the  Dean  of  American 
Letters.  He  has  had  more  influence  on  the  output 
of  fiction  in  America  than  any  other  living  man. 
This  influence  has  been  entirely  wholesome,  from 
the  standpoint  of  both  morals  and  Art.  He  has 
consistently  stood  for  Reticent  Realism.  He  has 
ridiculed  what  he  is  fond  of  calling  "romantic  rot," 
and  his  own  novels  have  been  a  silent  but  em- 
phatic   protest    against    "mentioning    the    unmen- 

59 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

tionable."  Every  now  and  then  there  has  risen  a 
violent  revolt  against  his  leadership,  the  latest  out- 
spoken attack  coming  from  a  novelist  of  distinction, 
Gertrude  Atherton.  In  the  year  1907  she  relieved 
her  mind  by  declaring  that  Mr.  Howells  has  been 
and  is  a  writer  for  boarding-school  misses;  that  he 
has  never  penetrated  deeply  into  life;  and  that  not 
only  has  his  own  timidity  prevented  him  from 
courageously  revealing  the  hearts  of  men  and  women, 
but  that  his  position  of  power  and  influence  has 
cast  a  blight  on  American  fiction.  Thanks  to  him, 
she  insists,  American  novels  are  pale  and  colourless 
productions,  and  are  known  the  world  over  for  their 
tameness  and  insipidity.  Mrs.  Atherton  has  been 
supported  in  this  revolt  by  many  very  young  literary 
aspirants,  who  lack  her  wisdom  and  her  experience, 
and  whose  chief  dislike  of  Mr.  Howells,  when  finally 
analysed,  seems  to  be  directed  against  his  intense 
ethical  earnestness.  For,  at  heart,  Mr.  Howells 
resembles  most  Anglo-Saxon  novelists  in  being  a 
moralist. 

It  is  true  that  American  novelists  and  play^'rights 
are  at  one  great  disadvantage  as  compared  with 
contemporary  Continental  writers.  Owing  to  the 
public  conscience,  they  are  compelled  to  work  in  a 
limited  field.  The  tilings  that  we  leave  to  medical 
specialists  and  to  alienists  arc  stajile  subject-matter 
in   high-class   French   and    German   fiction.     In   a 

60 


WILLIAM   DEAN  HOWELLS 

European  dictionary  there  is  no  such  word  as 
"reserve."  French  writers  like  Brieux  protest 
that  American  conceptions  of  French  morals  are 
based  on  the  reading  of  French  books  whose  authors 
have  no  standing  in  Paris,  and  whose  very  names 
are  unkno\\Ti  to  their  countrymen.  But  this  protest 
fades  before  facts.  The  facts  are  that  Parisian 
novelists  and  dramatists  of  the  highest  literary  and 
social  distinction,  who  are  awarded  national  prizes, 
admitted  to  the  French  Academy,  and  who  receive 
all  sorts  of  public  honours,  write  and  publish  books, 
which,  if  produced  in  the  United  States  by  an 
American,  would  bar  him  from  the  houses  and 
from  the  society  of  many  decent  people,  and  might 
cause  his  arrest.  At  any  rate,  he  would  be  re- 
garded as  a  criminal  rather  than  as  a  hero.  I  have 
in  mind  plays  by  Donnay,  recently  elected  to  the 
French  Academy;  plays  by  Capus,  who  stands 
high  in  public  regard;  novels  by  Regnier,  who  has 
received  all  sorts  of  honours.  These  men  are  cer- 
tainly not  fourth-  and  fifth-class  writers;  they  are 
thoroughly  representative  of  Parisian  literary  taste. 
Regnier  has  not  hesitated  to  write,  and  the  editors 
have  not  hesitated  to  accept,  for  the  periodical 
V Illustration,  which  goes  into  family  circles  every- 
where, a  novel  that  could  not  possibly  be  published 
in  any  respectable  magazine  in  America.  I  do  not 
say  that  Americans  are  one  peg  higher  in  morality 

6i 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

than  Frenchmen ;  it  may  be  that  we  are  hypocrites, 
and  that  the  French  are  models  of  virtue;  but  the 
difference  in  moral  tone  between  the  average  Ameri- 
can play  or  novel  and  that  produced  in  Paris  is 
simply  enormous. 

The  modem  German  novel  is  no  better  than  the 
French.  Last  night  I  finished  reading  Sudermann's 
long  and  powerful  story,  Das  hohe  Lied.  I  could 
not  help  thinking  how  entirely  different  it  is  in  its 
subject-matter,  in  its  characters,  in  its  scenes,  and 
in  its  atmosphere,  from  the  average  American  novel. 
Now  of  course  the  subject  that  arouses  the  most 
instant  interest  from  all  classes  of  people,  both 
young  and  old,  innocent  and  guilty,  is  the  subject 
of  sex.  A  large  number  of  modem  successful 
French  and  German  novels  and  plays  contain  no 
other  matter  of  any  real  importance  —  and  would 
be  intolerably  dull  were  it  not  for  their  dealing  with 
sexual  crimes.  The  Continental  writer  is  barred 
by  no  restraint;  when  he  has  nothing  to  say,  as 
is  very  often  the  case,  he  simply  plays  his  tmmp 
card.  The  American,  however,  is  not  permitted 
to  penetrate  beyond  the  bounds  of  decency;  which 
shuts  him  off  from  the  chief  field  where  European 
writers  dwell.  He  must  somehow  make  his  novel 
interesting  to  his  readers,  just  as  a  man  is  expected 
to  make  himself  interesting  in  social  conversation, 
without  recourse  to  pmricncy  or  obscenity. 

62 


WILLIAM   DEAN   HOWELLS 

Leaving  out  of  debate  for  a  moment  the  moral 
aspect  of  Art,  is  it  necessarily  true  that  novels  which 
plunge  freely  into  sex  questions  are  a  more  faithful 
representation  of  life  than  those  that  observe  the 
limits  of  good  taste?  I  think  not.  The  men  and 
women  in  many  Continental  stories  have  apparently 
nothing  to  do  except  to  gratify  their  passions.  All 
the  thousand  and  one  details  that  make  up  the 
daily  routine  of  the  average  person  are  sacrificed 
to  emphasise  one  thing;  but  this,  even  in  most 
degraded  Sybarites,  would  be  only  a  part  of  their 
actual  activity.  I  believe  that  A  Modern  Instance 
is  just  as  true  to  life  as  Bel-Ami.  It  would  really 
be  a  misfortune  if  Mrs.  Atherton  could  have  her 
way;  for  then  American  novelists  would  copy  the 
faults  of  European  writers  instead  of  their  virtues. 
The  reason  why  French  plays  and  French  novels 
are  generally  superior  to  American  is  not  because 
they  are  indecent;  and  we  shall  never  raise  our 
standard  merely  by  copying  foreign  immorality. 
The  superiority  of  the  French  is  an  intellectual 
and  artistic  superiority;  they  excel  us  in  literary 
style.  If  we  are  to  imitate  them,  let  us  imitate  their 
virtues  and  not  their  defects,  even  though  the  task 
in  this  case  be  infinitely  more  difficult. 

And,  granting  what  Mrs.  Atherton  says,  that  the 
reticence  of  American  fiction  is  owing  largely  to 
the  influence  of  Mr.  Howells,  have  we  not  every 

63 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

reason  to  be  grateful  to  him?  Has  not  the  modem 
novel  a  tremendous  influence  in  education,  and  do 
we  really  wish  to  see  young  men  and  women,  boys 
and  girls,  reading  stories  that  deal  mainly  with  sex? 
Is  it  well  that  they  should  abandon  Dickens,  Thack- 
eray, and  Stevenson,  for  the  novel  in  vogue  on  the 
Continent?  It  is  often  said  that  French  fiction 
is  intended  only  for  seasoned  readers,  and  is  care- 
fully kept  from  youth.  But  this  is  gammon,  and 
should  deceive  only  the  grossly  ignorant.  As  if 
anything  nowadays  could  be  kept  from  youth ! 
With  the  exception  of  girls  who  are  very  strictly 
brought  up,  young  people  in  Europe  have  the  utmost 
freedom  in  reading.  In  one  of  Regnier's  novels, 
which  purports  to  be  autobiographical,  the  favourite 
bedside  book  of  the  boy  in  his  teens  is  Mademoiselle 
de  Maupin.  In  a  secret  ballot  vote  recently  taken 
by  a  Russian  periodical,  to  discover  who  are  the 
most  popular  novelists  with  high-school  boys  and 
girls  in  Russia,  it  appeared  that  of  all  foreign  writers 
Guy  de  Maupassant  stood  first.  Is  this  really  a 
desirable  state  of  affairs?  Suppose  it  be  true,  as  it 
probably  is,  that  the  average  Russian,  German,  or 
French  boy  of  seventeen  is  intellectually  more  ma- 
ture than  his  English  or  American  contemporary  — 
are  we  willing  to  make  the  physical  and  moral 
sacrifice  for  the  merely  mental  advance?  Is  it 
not  better  that  our  boys  should  be  playing  football 

64 


WILLIAM  DEAN   HOWELLS 

and  reading  Treasure  Island,  than  that  they  should 
be  spending  their  leisure  hours  in  the  manner  de- 
scribed by  Regnier? 

Mr.  Howells's  creed  in  Art  is  perhaps  more  open 
to  criticism  than  his  creed  in  Ethics.  His  artistic 
creed  is  narrow,  strict,  and  definite.  He  has  ex- 
pressed it  in  his  essays,  and  exemplified  it  in  his 
novels.  His  two  doctrinal  works.  Criticism  and 
Fiction,  and  My  Literary  Passions,  resemble  Zola's 
Le  Roman  Experimental  in  dogmatic  limitation. 
The  creed  of  Mr.  Howells  is  realism,  which  he  has 
not  only  faithfully  followed  in  his  creative  work, 
but  which  he  uses  as  a  standard  by  which  to  measure 
the  value  of  other  novelists,  both  living  and  dead. 
As  genius  always  refuses  to  be  measured  by  any 
standard,  and  usually  defies  classification,  Mr. 
Howells's  literary  estimates  of  other  men's  work 
are  far  more  valuable  as  self-revelation  than  as 
adequate  appraisal.  Indeed,  some  of  his  criticisms 
seem  bizarre.  Where  works  of  fiction  do  not  run 
counter  to  his  literary  dogmas,  he  is  abundantly 
sympathetic  and  more  than  generous;  many  a 
struggling  young  writer  has  cause  to  bless  him  for 
powerful  assistance;  apparently  there  has  never 
been  one  grain  of  envy,  jealousy,  or  meanness  in  the 
mind  of  our  American  dean.  But,  broadly  speaking, 
Mr.  Howells  has  not  the  true  critical  mind,  which 
places  itself  for  the  moment  in  the  mental  attitude 
F  65 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

of  the  author  criticised;  he  is  primarily  a  creative 
rather  than  a  critical  writer.  Here  he  is  in  curious 
opposition  to  his  friend  and  contemporary,  Henry 
James.  Mr.  James  is  a  natural-bom  critic,  one  of 
the  best  America  has  ever  produced.  His  essay  on 
Balzac  was  a  masterpiece.  His  intellectual  power 
is  far  more  critical  than  creative;  as  a  novelist,  he 
seems  quite  inferior  to  Mr.  Howells.  And  his  best 
story,  the  litde  sketch,  Daisy  Miller^  was  properly 
called  by  its  author  a  "study." 

Mr.  Howells's  literary  career  has  two  rather 
definite  periods.  The  break  was  caused  largely 
by  the  influence  of  Tolstoi.  The  earlier  novels 
are  more  purely  artistic;  they  are  accurate  repre- 
sentations of  American  characters,  for  the  most 
part  joyous  in  mood,  full  of  genuine  humour,  and 
natural  charm.  A  story  absolutely  expressive  of 
the  author  as  we  used  to  know  him  is  The  Lady 
of  the  Aroostook.  As  a  sympathetic  and  delightful 
portrayal  of  a  New  England  country  girl,  this  book 
is  one  of  his  best  productions.  The  voyage  across 
the  Adantic;  the  surprise  caused  by  Lydia's  name 
and  appearance,  and  homely  conversation.  "I 
want  to  know!"  cried  Lydia.  The  second  surprise 
caused  by  her  splendid  singing  voice.  The  third 
surprise  caused  to  the  sophisticated  young  gentle- 
man by  discovering  that  he  was  in  love  with  her. 
His  rapture  at  his  glorious  good-fortune  in  saving 

66 


WILLIAM  DEAN   HOWELLS 

the  drunken  wretch  from  drowning,  thus  acting  as 
hero  before  his  lady's  eyes;  her  virginal  experiences 
in  Italy ;  the  final  happy  consummation  —  all  this 
is  in  Mr.  Howells's  best  vein,  the  Howclls  of  thirty 
years  ago.  The  story  is  full  of  observation,  cere- 
bration, and  human  affection.  As  Professor  Beers 
has  remarked,  if  Mr.  Howells  knows  his  country- 
men no  more  intimately  than  does  Henry  James, 
at  least  he  loves  them  better.  This  charming  novel 
was  rapidly  followed  in  the  next  few  years  by  a 
succession  of  books  that  are  at  once  good  to  read, 
and  of  permanent  value  as  reflections  of  American 
life,  manners,  and  morals.  These  were  A  Modern 
Instance,  A  Woman'' s  Reason,  The  Rise  of  Silas 
Lapham,  and  Indian  Summer;  making  a  literary 
harvest  of  which  not  only  their  author,  but  all  Ameri- 
cans, have  reason  to  be  justly  proud. 

Somewiicre  along  in  the  eighties  Mr.  Howells 
came  fully  within  the  grasp  of  the  mighty  influence 
of  Tolstoi,  an  influence,  which,  no  matter  how 
beneficial  in  certain  ways,  has  not  been  an  unmixed 
blessing  on  his  foreign  disciples.  What  the  Ameri- 
can owes  to  the  great  Russian,  and  how  warm  is 
his  gratitude  therefor,  any  one  may  see  for  himself 
by  reading  My  Literary  Passions.  It  is  indeed 
difficult  to  praise  the  maker  of  Anna  Karenina  too 
highly;  but  nobody  wanted  Mr.  Howells  to  become 
a  lesser  Tolstoi.     When  we  wish  to  read  Tolstoi, 

67 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

we  know  where  to  find  him;  we  wish  Mr.  Howells 
to  remain  his  own  self,  shrewdly  observant,  and 
kindly  humorous.  The  latter  novels  of  the  Ameri- 
can show  the  same  kind  of  change  that  took  place 
in  Bjornson,  that  has  also  characterised  Bourget; 
it  is  the  partial  abandonment  of  the  novel  as  an  art 
form,  and  its  employment  as  a  social,  political, 
or  religious  tract.  Mr.  Howells's  saving  sense  of 
humour  has  kept  him  from  dull  extremes ;  but  when 
A  Hazard  of  New  Fortunes  appeared,  we  knew 
that  there  was  more  in  the  title  than  the  writer  in- 
tended; our  old  friend  had  put  on  Saul's  armour. 
As  has  been  suggested  above,  this  change  was  not 
entirely  an  individual  one;  it  was  symptomatic  of 
the  development  of  the  modem  novel  all  over  the 
world.  But  in  this  instance  it  seemed  particularly 
regrettable.  We  have  our  fill  of  strikes  and  labour 
troubles  in  the  daily  newspaper,  without  going  to 
our  novelist  for  them.  With  one  exception,  it  is 
probable  that  not  a  single  one  of  Mr.  Howells's 
novels  published  during  the  last  twenty  years  is  as 
good,  from  the  artistic  and  literary  point  of  view,  as 
the  admirable  work  he  produced  before  1889.  The 
exception  is  The  Kentons  (1902),  in  which  he  re- 
turned to  his  earlier  manner,  in  a  triumphant  way 
that  showed  he  had  not  lost  his  skill.  Indeed,  there 
is  no  trace  of  decay  in  the  other  books  of  his  late 
years ;  there  is  merely  a  loss  of  charm. 

68 


WILLIAM   DEAN   HOWELLS 

I  think  that  Indian  Summer,  despite  its  immense 
popularity  at  the  time  of  publication,  has  never 
received  the  high  praise  it  really  deserves.  It  is 
written  in  a  positive  glow^  of  artistic  creation.  I 
believe  that  of  all  its  author's  works,  it  is  the  one 
whose  composition  he  most  keenly  enjoyed.  The 
conversations  —  always  a  great  feature  of  his  stories 
—  are  immensely  clever ;  I  suspect  that  as  he  wrote 
them  he  was  often  agreeably  surprised  at  his  own 
inspiration.  The  three  characters,  the  middle- 
aged  man  and  woman,  and  the  romantic  young 
girl,  are  admirably  set  off;  no  one  has  ever  better 
shown  the  fact  that  it  is  quite  possible  for  one  to 
imagine  oneself  in  love  when  really  one  is  fancy- 
free.  The  delicate  shades  of  jealousy  in  the  inti- 
mate talks  between  the  two  women  are  exquisitely 
done;  the  experience  of  the  grown  woman  contrast- 
ing finely  with  the  imagination  of  the  young  girl. 
The  difference  between  a  man  of  forty  and  a  woman 
of  twenty,  shown  here  not  in  heavy  tragedy,  but  in 
the  innumerable,  convincing  details  of  daily  human 
intercourse,  is  finely  emphasised;  and  we  can  feel 
the  great  relief  of  both  when  the  engagement  tie 
is  broken.  This  story  in  its  way  is  a  masterpiece; 
and  anyone  who  lacks  enthusiasm  for  its  author 
ought  to  read  it  again. 

His  most  powerful  novel  is  probably  A  Modern 
Instance.     This,  like  many  American  and  English 

69 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

fictions,  first  appeared  in  serial  form  —  a  fact  that 
should  be  known  before  one  indulges  in  criticism. 
The  old  objection  to  this  method  was  that  it  led  the 
writer  to  attempt  to  end  each  section  dramatically, 
leaving  the  reader  with  a  sharp  appetite  for  more. 
The  movement  of  the  narrative,  when  the  book  was 
finally  published  as  a  whole,  resembled  a  series  of 
jumps.  Someone  has  said,  that  even  so  fine  a 
novel  as  Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd  was  a  suc- 
cession of  brilliant  leaps;  whether  or  not  this  was 
caused  by  its  original  serial  printing,  I  do  not  know. 
This  difficulty  would  never  appear  in  Mr.  Howells, 
at  all  events;  because  his  stories  do  not  impress  us 
by  their  special  dramatic  scenes,  or  supreme  mo- 
ments, but  rather  by  their  completeness.  The  other 
objection,  however,  has  some  force  here  —  the  fact 
that  details  may  be  extended  beyond  their  artistic 
proportion,  in  a  manner  that  does  not  militate 
against  the  separate  instalments,  but  is  seen  to  mar 
the  book  as  a  whole.  The  logging  camp  incident 
in  A  Modern  Instance  is  prolonged  to  a  fault.  Pro- 
portion is  sacrificed  to  realism.  From  this  point 
of  view,  it  is  well  to  remember  that  The  Newcomes 
appeared  in  single  numbers,  whereas  Henry  Esmond 
was  published  originally  as  a  complete  work. 

But  this  slight  defect  is  more  than  atoned  for 
by  the  power  shown  in  the  depiction  of  character. 
This  is  a  study  of  degeneration,  not  dealing  with 

70 


WILLIAM   DEAN   HOWELLS 

remote  characters  in  far-off  historical  situations, 
but  brought  home  to  our  very  doors.  One  feels 
that  this  dreadful  fate  might  happen  to  one's  neigh- 
bours —  might  happen  to  oneself.  It  seems  to  me 
a  greater  book  in  every  way  than  Romola,  though 
I  am  not  prepared  to  say  that  Mr.  Howells  is  a 
greater  novelist  than  George  Eliot.  There  is  all 
the  difference  between  Tito  Melema  and  Bartley 
Hubbard  that  there  is  between  a  fancy  picture  and 
a  portrait.  Mr.  Howells  is  fond  of  using  Shake- 
spearian quotations  as  titles;  witness  The  Counter- 
feit Presentment,  The  Undiscovered  Country,  The 
Quality  of  Mercy,  and  A  Modern  Instance.  Now 
the  word  "modern,"  as  every  student  of  Shake- 
speare knows,  means  in  the  poet's  works  almost  the 
opposite  of  what  it  signifies  to-day.  "Full  of  wise 
saws  and  modern  instances"  is  equivalent  to  saying 
prosaically,  "full  of  sententious  proverbs  and  old, 
trite  illustrations."  In  the  Shakespearian  sense, 
Mr.  Howells's  title  might  be  translated  "A  Familiar 
Example"  —  for  it  is  not  only  a  story  of  modem 
American  life,  it  portrays  what  is  unfortunately 
an  instance  all  too  familiar.  Bartley  Hubbard  is 
the  typical  representative  of  the  "smart"  young 
American.  He  is  not  in  the  least  odious  when  we 
first  make  his  acquaintance.  His  skill  in  address 
and  in  adaptation  to  society  assure  his  instant 
popularity;  and  at  heart  he  is  a  good  fellow,  quite 

71 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

unlike  a  designing  villain.  He  would  rather  do 
right  than  do  wrong,  provided  both  are  equally 
convenient.  He  simply  follows  the  line  of  least 
resistance.  Nor  is  he  by  nature  a  Bohemian;  he 
loves  Marcia,  is  proud  of  her  fresh  beauty,  and 
enjoys  domestic  life.  Then  he  has  the  fascinating 
quality  of  true  humour.  His  conversations  with 
his  wife,  when  he  is  free  from  worry,  are  exceedingly 
attractive  to  the  impersonal  listener.  He  is  just 
like  thousands  of  clever  young  American  journalists 
—  quick-witted,  enterprising,  energetic,  with  a 
sure  nose  for  news;  there  is,  in  fact,  only  one  thing 
the  matter  with  Bartley.  Although,  when  life  is 
flowing  evenly,  he  does  not  realise  his  deficiency, 
he  actually  has  at  heart  no  moral  principle,  no 
ethical  sense,  no  honour.  The  career  of  such  a 
man  will  depend  entirely  upon  circumstances; 
because  his  standard  of  virtue  is  not  where  it  should 
be,  within  his  own  mind,  but  without.  Like  many 
other  men,  he  can  resist  anything  but  temptation. 
Whether  he  will  become  a  good  citizen  or  a  blackleg, 
depends  not  in  the  least  upon  himself,  but  wholly 
upon  the  events  through  which  he  moves.  Had  he 
married  exactly  the  right  sort  of  girl,  and  had  some 
rich  uncle  left  the  young  couple  a  fortune,  it  is 
probable  that  neither  his  friends,  nor  his  wife,  nor 
even  he  himself,  would  have  guessed  at  his  capacity 
for  evil.    He  would  have  remained  popular  in  the 

72 


WILLIAM   DEAN   HOWELLS 

community,  and  died  both  lamented  and  respected. 
But  the  difficulty  is  that  he  did  not  marry  wisely, 
and  he  subsequently  became  short  of  cash.  Now, 
as  some  writer  has  said,  it  does  not  matter  so  much 
whether  a  man  marries  with  wisdom  or  the  reverse, 
nor  whether  he  behaves  in  other  emergencies  with 
prudence  or  folly;  what  really  matters  is  how  he 
behaves  himself  after  the  marriage,  or  after  any 
other  crisis  where  he  may  have  chosen  foolishly. 
But  Bartley,  like  many  other  easy-going  youths, 
was  no  man  for  adverse  circumstances.  Almost 
imperceptibly  at  first  his  degeneration  begins;  his 
handsome  figure  shows  a  touch  of  grossness;  the 
refinement  in  his  face  becomes  blurred;  drinking 
ceases  to  be  a  pleasure,  and  becomes  a  habit.  Mean- 
while, as  what  he  calls  his  bad  luck  increases,  quarrels 
with  his  wife  become  more  frequent ;  try  as  he  will, 
there  is  always  a  sheaf  of  unpaid  bills  at  the  end  of 
the  month;  his  home  loses  its  charm.  The  mental 
and  spiritual  decline  of  the  man  is  shown  repulsively 
by  his  physical  appearance.  No  one  who  has  read 
the  book  can  possibly  forget  his  broad  back  as  he 
sits  in  the  courtroom,  and  the  horrible  ring  of  fat 
that  hangs  over  his  collar.  The  devil  has  done  his 
work  with  such  technique  that  Bartley  as  we  first 
see  him,  and  Bartley  as  we  last  see  him,  seem  to 
be  two  utterly  different  and  distinct  persons  and 
personalities;    it   is  with   an   irrepressible   shudder 

73 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

that  we  recall  the  time  when  this  coarse,  fat  sot  was 
a  slender,  graceful  young  man,  who  charmed  all 
acquaintances  by  his  ease  of  manner  and  winsome 
conversation.  And  yet,  as  one  looks  back  over  his 
life,  every  stage  in  the  transition  is  clear,  logical, 
and  wholly  natural. 

From  another  point  of  view  this  novel  is  a  study 
of  the  passion  of  jealousy.  No  other  American 
novel,  so  far  as  I  know,  has  given  so  accurate  a 
picture  of  the  gradual  and  subtle  poisoning  produced 
by  this  emotion,  and  only  one  American  play,  — 
Clyde  Fitch's  thoughtful  and  powerful  drama.  The 
Girl  with  the  Green  Eyes.  It  is  curious  that  jealousy, 
so  sinister  and  terrible  in  its  effects  on  character, 
should  usually  appear  on  the  stage  and  in  fiction 
as  comic.  It  is  seldom  employed  as  a  leading  motive 
in  tragedy,  though  Shakespeare  showed  its  possi- 
bilities; but  one  frequently  sees  it  in  broad  farce. 
Of  all  the  passions,  there  is  none  which  has  less 
mirth  than  jealousy.  It  is  fundamentally  tragic; 
and  in  A  Modern  Instance,  we  see  the  evil  transforma- 
tion it  works  in  Marcia,  and  its  force  in  accelerating 
her  husband's  degeneration.  Marcia  is  an  example 
of  the  wish  of  Keats  —  she  lives  a  life  of  sensations 
rather  than  of  thoughts;  and  jealousy  can  be  con- 
quered only  by  mental  power,  never  by  emotional. 
Marcia  has  no  intellectual  resources;  her  love  for 
her  husband  is  her  whole  existence.     She  has  no 

74 


WILLIAM   DEAN  HOWELLS 

more  mind  than  many  another  American  country 
girl  who  comes  home  from  boarding-school.  As 
one  critic  has  pointed  out,  "she  has  not  yet  emerged 
from  the  elemental  condition  of  womanhood." 
Jealousy  is,  of  course,  an  "animal  quality,"  and 
Marcia,  without  knowing  it,  is  simply  a  tamed, 
pretty,  affectionate  young  animal.  Her  jealousy 
is  entirely  without  foundation,  but  it  causes  her  the 
most  excruciating  torment,  and  constantly  widens 
the  breach  between  herself  and  the  man  she  loves. 
If  she  had  only  married  Halleck !  She  would  never 
have  been  jealous  with  him.  But  jealousy  is  like 
an  ugly  weed  in  a  beautiful  garden;  it  exists  only 
where  there  is  love.  And  a  girl  like  Marcia  could 
never  have  returned  the  love  of  a  stodgy  man  like 
Halleck.  One  cannot  help  asking  three  vain 
questions  as  one  contemplates  the  ruins  of  her 
happiness  and  sees  the  cause.  If  she  had  never 
met  Bartley,  and  had  married  Halleck,  would  she 
have  been  better  off?  are  we  to  understand  that 
she  is  finally  saved  by  Halleck?  and  if  so,  what  is 
the  nature  of  her  salvation? 

The  old  sceptical  lawyer,  Marcia's  father,  is  one 
of  the  most  convincing  characters  that  Mr.  Howells 
has  ever  drawn.  Those  who  have  lived  in  New 
England  know  this  man,  for  they  have  seen  him 
often.  He  is  shrewd,  silent,  practical,  undemon- 
strative, yet  his  unspoken  love  for  his  daughter  is 

75 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

almost  terrible  in  its  intensity,  and  finally  brings 
him  to  the  grave.  Although  he  admires  young 
Bartley's  cleverness,  he  would  have  admired  him 
more  had  he  been  less  clever.  He  has  a  sure  in- 
stinct against  the  young  man  from  the  start,  and 
knows  there  can  be  only  one  outcome  of  such  a 
marriage;  because  he  is  better  acquainted  with  the 
real  character  of  husband  and  wife  than  they  are 
with  themselves.  Squire  Gaylord  is  a  person  of 
whose  creation  any  novelist  in  the  history  of  fiction 
might  be  proud. 

When  A  Modern  Instance  was  first  published, 
a  contemporary  review  called  it  "a  book  that  all 
praise  but  none  like."  I  imagine  that  the  unpleasant 
sensations  it  awakens  in  every  reader  are  like  those 
roused  by  Mr.  Barrie's  Sentimental  Tommy.  The 
picture  is  simply  too  faithful  to  be  agreeable.  Every- 
one beholds  his  own  faults  and  tendencies  clearly 
portrayed,  and  the  result  is  quite  other  than  re- 
assuring. The  book  finds  us  all  at  home.  But, 
as  Gogol,  the  great  Russian,  used  to  say,  quoting 
an  old  Slavonic  proverb,  "We  must  not  blame  the 
mirror  if  the  face  looks  ugly." 

It  is  both  instructive  and  entertaining  to  try  the 
effect  of  this  novel  on  a  representative  group  of 
American  college  undergraduates.  Those  who  had 
lived  in  New  England  villages,  and  were  familiar 
with  the  scenes  described,  were  loud  in  their  praises 

76 


WILLIAM  DEAN   HOWELLS 

of  the  background,  and  of  the  Gaylord  family. 
One  young  man  remarked  —  he  was  at  Yale  —  "I 
know  a  young  journalist  who  was  last  year  at  Har- 
vard, who  is  going  to  the  devil  in  very  much  the 
same  way."  Another  said,  with  an  experience 
hardly  consonant  with  his  years,  that  he  had  known 
women  just  as  jealous  as  Marcia.  Most  of  them, 
however,  believed  that  her  jealousy  was  grossly 
exaggerated;  it  looks  so  like  folly  to  those  yet  un- 
touched by  the  passion  of  love.  Another  truthful 
and  modest  youth  said  pathetically,  "I  am  too 
young  to  appreciate  this  book."  Still  another 
remarked  with  rare  lucidity  and  definiteness  of 
penetration,  "In  reading  this  story  somehow  some- 
thing struck  me  unfavourably."  Minor  improba- 
bilities in  the  novel  produced  the  greatest  shock  — 
the  hot-scotch  episode  seemed  quite  impossible, 
and  Mr.  Howells  was  thought  to  be  a  poor  judge 
of  the  effects  of  whiskey.  But  the  criticism  I  en- 
joyed most  came  from  the  undergraduate  who  said 
in  all  sincerity,  "I  think  this  is  a  very  good  book 
for  young  ladies  to  read  before  getting  married." 
So  indeed  it  is. 

In  the  year  1902,  by  the  publication  of  The 
Kentons,  Mr.  Howells  gave  us  a  most  delightful 
surprise.  It  was  like  the  return  of  an  old  friend 
from  a  far  journey.  In  literature  it  was  as  though 
Bjornson  should  publish  a  story  like  A  Happy  Boy, 

77 


ESSAYS   ON  MODERN  NOVELISTS 

or  as  though  Mr.  Hardy  should  give  us  a  tale  like 
Under  the  Greenwood  Tree.  The  Kentons  is  a 
thoroughly  charming  international  novel,  contain- 
ing the  pleasant  adventures  of  an  Ohio  family  on 
the  ocean  liner  and  in  Europe,  written  in  the  Aroos- 
took style,  sparkling  with  humour,  and  rich  in  sym- 
pathy and  tenderness.  Political,  social,  and  ethical 
problems  are  conspicuously  absent,  and  the  only 
material  used  by  the  writer  is  human  nature.  This 
is  one  of  the  best  books  he  has  ever  written;  it  has 
all  the  charm  of  Their  Wedding  Journey,  plus 
the  wisdom  and  observation  that  come  only  by 
years.  It  is  wholesome,  healthy,  realistic;  a 
thoroughly  representative  American  novel  from  a 
master's  hand.  In  a  French  roman,  Bittredge 
would  of  course  have  been  a  libertine,  and  one  of 
the  girls  ruined  by  him.  In  The  Kentons,  he  is 
merely  fresh,  and  though  he  causes  some  trouble, 
everybody  in  the  end  is  better  off  for  the  experience. 
Mr.  Howells  seems  especially  to  dislike  Frechheit 
in  young  men,  and  he  has  made  the  vulgarity  and 
assurance  of  Bittredge  both  offensive  and  absurd. 
We  have  too  many  Bittredges  in  the  United  States; 
and  some  of  them  do  not  lose  their  bittredgidity 
with  advancing  years. 

The  five  members  of  the  Kenton  family  are 
wonderfully  well  drawn,  and  are  just  such  people 
as   we    fortunately   meet   every   day.    The   purity 

78 


WILLIAM   DEAN  HOWELLS 

and  sweetness  of  married  and  family  life  are  beauti- 
fully exemplified  here;  they  are  exactly  what  we 
see  in  thousands  of  American  homes,  and  con- 
stitute the  real  answer  to  modem  attacks  on  the 
conjugal  relation.  The  judge  and  his  wife  are  two 
companions,  growing  old  together  in  simplicity 
and  innocence,  happy  in  the  truest  sense  —  loving 
each  other  far  more  in  age  than  in  youth,  which  is 
perfectly  natural  in  life  if  not  in  fiction;  because 
every  day  they  become  more  necessary  to  each  other 
and  have  common  interests  extending  over  many 
years.  The  scene  in  their  bedroom,  as  they  talk 
together  before  slumber,  while  the  old  Judge  winds 
up  his  watch,  is  a  veritable  triumph  of  Art. 

The  younger  daughter  Lottie  is  a  vivid  portrait 
of  the  typical  American  high-school  girl,  slangy, 
superficial,  flirtatious,  not  quite  vulgar,  and  in  every 
emergency  with  young  men  fully  capable  of  taking 
care  of  herself.  After  a  round  of  joyous,  heart- 
free,  and  innocent  familiarities  with  various  youthful 
admirers,  she  finally  becomes  an  admirable  wife 
and  housekeeper.  Her  sister  Ellen  is  of  an  opposite 
temperament,  pale,  slight,  and  non-athletic.  She 
is  entirely  different  from  the  Booth  Tarkington  or 
Richard  Harding  Davis  heroine,  and  in  her  purity, 
delicacy,  and  refinement,  takes  us  back  to  old- 
fashioned  fiction.  As  a  spectator  on  the  steamer 
says  of  her,  "that  pale  girl  is  adorable."     In  her 

79 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

shyness  and  extraordinary  loveliness  she  reminds 
us  of  Turgenev's  spiritual  Lisa.  The  scene  in  the 
night,  where  her  young  brother  steals  to  her  bed 
and  pours  into  her  sympathetic  ears  all  the  troubled 
passion  and  sorrow,  all  the  embarrassment  and 
suffering  of  his  sensitive  boy's  heart,  is  exceedingly 
beautiful  and  tender.  He  knows  she  will  understand. 
And  at  last  it  is  Ellen,  and  not  Lottie,  who  becomes 
the  fashionable,  aristocratic,  New  York  woman  — 
preserving  in  her  wealthy  environment  all  the  fruits 
of  the  spirit. 

Boyne,  the  small  boy,  the  "kid  brother,"  is  a  fine 
illustration  of  the  enthusiasm  for  humanity  so  char- 
acteristic of  Mr.  Howells.  It  is  instructive  to  com- 
pare this  little  man  with  the  young  brother  of  Daisy 
Miller.  Both  are  at  the  age  most  trying  to  their 
elders,  and  both  are  faithfully  portrayed;  but 
Randolph  C.  Miller  is  made  particularly  obnoxious, 
even  odious,  while  one  cannot  help  loving  Boyne. 
The  difference  is  that  one  is  drawn  with  the  finger 
of  scorn  and  the  other  with  the  insight  of  sympathy. 
Mr.  Howells  calls  Boyne  "a  mass  of  helpless  sweet- 
ness though  he  did  not  know  it."  His  romantic 
love  for  the  young  queen  of  Holland  and  the  burn- 
ing mortification  he  suffers  thereby,  are  sufficiently 
easy  to  understand.  The  contrast  between  the  high 
seriousness  with  which  he  takes  himself,  and  the 
impression  he  makes  on  others,  is  something  that 

80 


WILLIAM   DEAN   HOWELLS 

every  man  who  looks  back  will  remember.  As  the 
novelist  puts  it,  "He  thought  he  was  an  iceberg 
when  he  was  merely  an  ice  cream  of  heroic  mould." 
The  Kentons,  like  some  other  novels  by  Mr, 
Howells,  may  seem  to  many  readers  superficial, 
because  it  is  so  largely  taken  up  with  the  trivial 
details  of  daily  existence.  It  is  really  a  profound 
study  of  life,  made  by  an  artist  who  has  not  only 
the  wisdom  of  the  head,  but  the  deeper  wisdom  of 
the  heart. 


8i 


IV 


BJORNSTJERNE  BJORNSON 

For  over  half  a  century  this  intellectual  athlete 
has  been  one  of  the  busiest  men  in  the  world,  A 
partisan  fighter  bom  and  bred,  he  has  been  active 
in  every  political  Skandinavian  struggle ;  in  religious 
questions  he  has  fought  first  on  one  side  and  then 
on  the  other,  changing  only  by  honest  conviction, 
and  hitting  with  all  his  might  every  time;  to  him 
the  word  "  education  "  is  as  a  red  rag  to  a  bull,  for  he 
believes  that  it  has  been  mainly  bad,  and  if  people 
will  only  listen,  he  can  make  it  mainly  good;  in 
a  passion  of  chivalry,  he  has  drawn  his  pen  for  the 
cause  of  Woman,  whose  "sphere"  he  hopes  to 
change  —  the  most  modern  and  the  most  popular 
of  all  the  vain  attempts  to  square  the  circle;  his 
powerful  voice  has  been  heard  on  the  lecture  plat- 
form, not  only  in  his  own  beloved  country,  but  all 
over  Europe  and  in  America;  he  has  served  for 
years  as  Theatre-Director,  in  the  determination  to 
convert  the  playhouse,  like  everything  else  he  touches, 
into  a  vast  moral  force.  In  addition  to  all  the 
excitement  of  a  life  spent  in   fighting,   his  purely 

82 


BJORNSTJERNE   BJORNSON 

literary  activity  has  been  enormous  in  quantity  and 
astonishing  in  range.  His  numerous  dramas  treat 
of  all  possible  themes,  from  the  old  Sagas  to  mod- 
ern divorce  laws;  and  after  exhausting  all  earthly 
material,  he  has  boldly  advanced  into  the  realm 
of  the  supernatural;  his  splendid  play.  Beyond 
Human  Power,  holds  the  boards  in  most  Euro- 
pean cities,  and  has  exercised  a  profound  influence 
on  modem  drama.  His  novels  are  as  different 
in  style  and  purpose  as  it  is  possible  for  the  novels 
of  one  man  to  be;  and  some  of  them  are  already 
classics.  A  man  with  such  an  endowment,  with 
such  tremendous  convictions,  with  buoyant  optimism 
and  terrific  energy,  has  made  no  small  stir  in  the 
world,  and  it  will  be  a  long  time  before  the  name  of 
Bjornstjernc  Bjornson  is  forgotten. 

Had  he  not  possessed,  in  addition  to  a  fine  mind, 
a  magnificent  physical  frame,  he  would  long  since 
have  vanished  into  that  spiritual  world  that  has 
interested  him  so  deeply.  But  he  has  the  physique 
of  a  Norse  god.  Many  instances  of  his  bodily 
strength  and  endurance  have  been  cited;  it  is  suffi- 
cient to  remember  that  even  after  his  mane  of  hair 
had  become  entirely  grey  he  regularly  took  his  bath 
by  standing  naked  under  a  mountain  waterfall. 
Let  that  suffice,  as  one  trial  of  it  would  for  most  of 
us.  He  came  honestly  by  his  health  and  vigour, 
born  as  he  was  on  a  lonely  mountain-side  in  Norway. 

83 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

It  was  in  the  winter  of  1832  that  this  sturdy  baby 
gave  his  first  cry  for  freedom,  his  father  being  a 
village  pastor,  whose  flock  were  literally  scattered 
among  steep  and  desolate  rocks,  where  the  salient 
feature  of  the  landscape  during  nine  months  of  the 
year  was  snow.  More  than  once  the  good  shepherd 
had  to  seek  and  save  that  which  was  lost.  For 
society,  the  little  boy  had  a  few  pet  animals  and  the 
dreams  engendered  by  supreme  loneliness.  But 
when  he  was  six  years  old,  the  father  was  fortunately 
called  to  a  pastorate  in  a  beautiful  valley  on  the  west 
coast,  surrounded  by  noble  and  inspiring  scenery, 
the  effect  of  which  is  visibly  seen  in  all  his  early 
stories.  We  cannot  help  comparing  this  vale  of 
beauty,  trailing  clouds  of  glory  over  Bjomson's 
boyhood,  with  the  flat,  wet,  dismal  gloom  of  East 
Prussia,  that  oppressed  so  heavily  the  child  Suder- 
mann,  and  made  Dame  Care  look  so  grey. 

At  the  grammar  school,  at  the  high  school,  and  at 
the  university  he  showed  little  interest  in  the  cur- 
riculum, and  no  particular  aptitude  for  study; 
but  before  leaving  college  he  had  already  begun 
original  composition,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty-four 
he  published  a  masterpiece.  This  was  the  pastoral 
romance,  Synnovl  Solbakken,  which  for  sheer  beauty 
of  style  and  atmosphere  he  has  never  surpassed. 
For  some  years  preceding  the  date  of  its  appearance 
there  had  been  a  lull  in  literary  activity  in  Norway. 

84 


BJORNSTJERNE   BJORNSON 

Out  of  this  premonitory  hush  of  stillness  came  a 
beautiful  voice,  which  by  the  newness  and  freshness 
of  its  tones  aroused  immediate  interest.  Everybody 
listened,  enchanted  by  the  strange  harmony.  Men 
saw  that  a  new  prophet  had  arisen  in  Israel.  The 
absolute  simplicity  of  the  style,  the  naivete  of  the 
story,  the  naturalness  of  the  characters,  the  short, 
passionate  sentences  like  those  of  the  Sagas,  the 
lyrically  poetic  atmosphere,  appealed  at  once  to  the 
Norwegian  heart.  Why  is  it  that  we  are  surprised 
in  books  and  in  plays  by  simple  language  and  natural 
characters?  It  must  be  that  we  are  so  accustomed 
to  literary  conventions  remote  from  actual  life,  that 
when  we  behold  real  people  and  hear  natural  talk 
in  works  of  art  our  first  emotion  is  glad  astonishment. 
For  the  same  reason  we  praise  certain  persons  for 
displaying  what  we  call  common  sense.  Be  this 
as  it  may,  no  one  believed  that  a  pastoral  romance 
could  be  so  vigorous,  so  fresh,  and  so  true.  Of  all 
forms  of  literature,  pastoral  tales,  whether  in  verse 
or  in  prose,  have  been  commonly  the  most  artificial 
and  the  most  insipid;  but  here  was  the  breath  of 
life.  I  can  recommend  nothing  better  for  the  soul 
weary  of  the  closeness  of  modern  naturalism  than  a 
course  of  reading  in  the  early  work  of  Bjornson. 

He  followed  this  initial  success  with  three  other 
beautiful  prose  lyrics  —  Arne,  A  Happy  Boy,  and 
The  Fisher  Maiden.     These  stories  exhibit  the  same 

8S 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

qualities  so  strikingly  displayed  in  Synnove  Solbakken. 
In  all  this  artistic  production  Bjornson  is  an  impres- 
sionist, reproducing  with  absolute  fidelity  what  he 
saw,  both  in  the  world  of  matter  and  of  spirit.  We 
may  rely  faithfully  on  the  correctness  of  these  pictures, 
whether  they  portray  natural  scenery,  country  cus- 
toms, or  peasant  character.  We  inhale  Norway.  We 
can  smell  the  pines.  The  nipping  and  eager  air,  the 
dark  green  resinous  forests  —  we  feel  these  as 
plainly  as  if  we  were  physically  present  in  the  Land 
of  the  Midnight  Sun.  The  kindly  simplicity  of  the 
peasants,  the  village  ceremonies  at  weddings  and 
funerals,  the  cheerful  loneliness  with  sheep  on 
mountain  pasture,  and  the  subdued  but  universal 
note  of  deep  rural  piety,  make  one  -  feel  as  though 
the  whole  community  were  bound  by  gold  chains 
about  the  feet  of  God.  Bjornson  says,  "The  church 
is  in  the  foreground  of  Norwegian  peasant  life." 
And  indeed  everything  seems  to  centre  around 
God's  acre,  and  the  spire  of  the  meeting-house 
points  in  the  same  direction  as  the  stories  themselves. 
Many  beautiful  passages  affect  us  like  noble  music; 
our  eyes  are  filled  with  happy  tears. 

In  view  of  the  strong  and  ardent  personality  of 
the  author,  it  is  curious  that  these  early  romances 
should  be  so  truly  objective.  One  feels  his  person- 
ality in  a  general  way,  as  one  feels  that  of  Turgenev; 
but  the  young  writer  separates  himself  entirely  from 

86 


BJORNSTJERNE   BJORNSON 

the^^course  of  the  story;  he  nowhere  interferes. 
The  characters  apparently  develop  without  his 
assistance,  as  the  events  take  place  without  any 
manipulation.  As  a  work  of  objective  art,  Synnove 
Solbakken  approaches  flawless  perfection.  It  has 
one  plot,  which  travels  in  one  direction  —  forward. 
The  persons  are  intensely  Norwegian,  but  there 
their  similarity  ends.  Each  is  individualised.  The 
simplicity  of  the  story  is  so  remarkable  that  to  some 
superficial  and  unobservant  readers  it  has  seemed 
childish.  The  very  acme  of  Art  is  so  close  to  nature 
that  it  sometimes  is  mistaken  for  no  art  at  all,  like 
the  acting  of  Garrick  or  the  style  of  Jane  Austen. 
Adverse  criticisms  are  the  highest  compliments. 
Language  is  well  managed  when  it  expresses  pro- 
found thoughts  in  words  clear  to  a  child. 

The  love  scenes  in  this  narrative  are  idyllic;  in 
fact,  the  whole  book  is  an  idyl.  It  seems  radiant 
with  sunshine.  It  is  as  pure  as  a  mountain  lake, 
and  as  refreshing.  And  besides  the  artistic  unity 
of  the  work,  that  satisfies  one's  standards  so  fully, 
there  is  an  exquisite  something  hard  to  define;  a 
play  of  fancy,  a  veil  of  poetic  beauty  lingering  over 
the  story,  that  makes  us  feel  when  we  have  closed 
the  book  as  if  we  were  gazing  at  a  clear  winter 
sunset. 

Bjomson  has  the  creative  imagination  of  the  true 
poet.     In  the  wonderful  prologue  to  Arne  he  gives 

87 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

the  trees  separate  personalities,  in  a  manner  to 
arouse  almost  the  envy  of  Thomas  Hardy.  Indeed, 
the  author  of  The  Woodlanders  has  never  felt  the 
trees  more  intensely  than  the  Norwegian  novelist. 
The  prose  style  unconsciously  breaks  into  verse 
form  at  times,  with  the  natural  grace  and  ease  of 
a  singing  bird.  Not  the  least  charming  incidents 
in  Bjornson's  romances  are  the  frequent  lyrics, 
that  spring  up  like  cowslips  in  a  pasture. 

"Punctual  as  Springtide  forth  peep  they." 


The  novels  in  Bjornson's  second  period  are  so 
totally  unlike  those  we  have  just  been  considering 
that  if  all  his  work  had  been  published  anonymously, 
no  onQ  would  have  ventured  to  say  that  the  same 
man  had  written  A  Happy  Boy  and  In  God's  Way. 
There  came  a  pause  in  his  creative  activity.  He 
wrote  little  imaginative  literature,  and  many  thought 
the  well  of  his  inspiration  had  gone  dry.  Really 
he  was  passing  through  a  belated  Sturm  und  Drang; 
a  tremendous  intellectual  struggle  and  fermentation 
had  set  in,  from  which  he  emerged  mentally  a  changed 
man,  with  a  new  outfit  of  opinions  and  ideas.  At 
nearly  the  same  time  his  great  contemporary  Tol- 
stoi was  also  in  the  Slough  of  Despond,  but  he 
climbed  out  on  the  other  side  and  set  his  face  tow- 
ards the  Celestial  City.     Bjornson's  floundering  ulti- 


BJORNSTJERNE   BJORNSON 

mately  carried  him  in  precisely  the  opposite  direction. 
While  Tolstoi  was  studying  the  New  Testament, 
Bjomson  applied  himself  to  Darwin,  Mill,  and 
Spencer,  and  became  completely  converted  from 
the  Christianity  of  his  youth.  Many  minds  would 
have  been  temporarily  paralysed  by  such  a  result, 
and  would  finally  have  become  either  pessimistic 
or  coldly  critical.  But  Bjornson  simply  could  not 
endure  to  be  a  gloomy,  cynical  spectator  of  life, 
like  his  countryman,  Ibsen,  any  more  than  he  could 
leave  his  native  land  and  calmly  view  its  nakedness 
from  the  comfortable  environment  of  Munich  or 
Rome.  Bjomson  has  the  sort  of  intellect  that  can- 
not remain  in  equilibrium.  He  was  ever  a  fighter, 
and  cannot  live  without  something  to  fight  for. 
The  natural  optimism  of  his  temperament,  so  opposed 
in  every  way  to  the  blank  despair  of  Ibsen,  made 
him  see  in  his  new  views  the  way  of  salvation.  He 
is  just  as  sure  he  is  right  now  as  he  was  when  he 
held  opinions  exactly  the  contrary.  With  joyful 
ardour  he  became  the  champion  and  propagandist 
of  democracy  in  politics  and  of  free  thought  in  re- 
ligion; apparently  adopting  Spencer's  saying,  "To 
the  true  reformer  no  institution  is  sacred,  no  belief 
above  criticism."  For  the  word  "  reformer  "  precisely 
describes  Bjornson;  like  the  chief  characters  in 
his  later  novels,  he  is  an  apostle  of  reform,  zealous, 
tireless,  and  tiresome. 

89 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

Lowell,  in  his  fine  essay  on  Gray,  said  that  one 
reason  why  the  eighteenth  century  was  so  com- 
fortable was  that  "responsibility  for  the  universe 
had  not  yet  been  invented."  Now  Bjomson 
feels  this  responsibility  with  all  the  strength  of  his 
nature,  and  however  admirable  it  may  be  as  a  moral 
quality,  it  has  vitiated  his  artistic  career.  As  he 
renounced  Christianity  for  agnosticism,  so  he  re- 
nounced romance  for  realism.  The  novels  written 
since  1875  are  not  only  unlike  his  early  pastoral 
romances  in  literary  style;  they  are  totally  differ- 
ent productions  in  tone,  in  spirit,  and  in  intention. 
And,  from  the  point  of  view  of  art,  they  are,  in  my 
opinion,  as  inferior  to  the  work  of  his  youth  as  Haw- 
thorne's campaign  Life  of  Pierce  is  inferior  to  The 
Scarlet  Letter.  In  every  way  Bjomson  is  farther 
off  from  heaven  than  when  he  was  a  boy. 

In  addition  to  many  short  sketches,  his  later 
period  includes  three  realistic  novels.  These  are: 
Flags  Are  Flying  in  Town  and  Harbour,  translated 
into  English  with  the  title,  The  Heritage  of  tJie 
Kurts,  for  it  is  a  study  in  heredity;  In  God's 
Way,^  loudly  proclaimed  as  his  masterpiece,  and 
Mary.  The  first  two  originally  attracted  more 
attention  abroad  than  at  home.  The  Flags  hung 
idly  in  Norway,  and  the  orthodox  were  not  anx- 
ious to   get   in  God's  way.     But  the  second  book 

■  In  the  original  the  title  is  "In  God's  Ways." 
90 


BJORNSTJERNE   BJORNSON 

produced  considerable  excitement  in  England,  which 
finally  reacted  in  Christiania  and  Copenhagen;  it 
is  still  hotly  discussed.  In  these  three  novels  the 
author  has  stepped  out  of  the  role  of  artist  and 
become  a  kind  of  professor  of  pedagogy,  his  speciality 
being  the  education  of  women.  In  Flags  the 
principal  part  of  the  story  is  taken  up  with  a  girls' 
school,  which  gives  the  novelist  an  opportunity  to 
include  a  confused  study  of  heredity,  and  to  air  all 
sorts  of  educational  theory.  The  chief  one  appears 
to  be  that  in  the  curriculum  for  young  girls  the 
"major"  should  be  physiology.  Hygiene,  which 
so  many  bewildered  persons  are  accepting  just  now 
in  lieu  of  the  Gospel,  plays  a  heavy  part  in  Bjornson's 
later  work.  The  gymnasium  in  Flags  takes  the 
place  of  the  church  in  Synnove;  and  acrobatic  feats 
of  the  body  are  deemed  more  healthful  than  the 
religious  aspirations  of  the  soul.  Kallem,  a  promi- 
nent character  of  the  story  In  God's  Way,  usually 
appears  walking  on  his  hands,  which  is  not  the 
only  fashion  in  which  he  is  upside  down.  The  book 
Flags  is,  frankly  speaking,  an  intolerable  bore. 
The  hero,  Rendalen,  who  also  appears  in  the  sub- 
sequent novel,  is  the  mouthpiece  of  the  new  opinions 
of  the  author;  a  convenient  if  clumsy  device,  for 
whenever  Bjomson  wishes  to  expound  his  views 
on  education,  hygiene,  or  religion,  he  simply  makes 
Rendalen   deliver   a   lecture.     Didactic   novels    are 

91 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

in  general  a  poor  substitute  either  for  learning  or 
for  fiction,  but  they  are  doubly  bad  when  the  author 
is  confused  in  his  ideas  of  science  and  in  his  notions 
of  art.  One  general  "lesson"  emerges  from  the 
jargon  of  this  book  —  that  men  should  suffer  for 
immorality  as  severely  as  women,  a  doctrine  neither 
new  nor  practicable.  The  difficulty  is  that  with 
Bjomson,  as  with  some  others  who  shout  this  edict, 
the  equalising  of  the  punishment  takes  the  form  of 
leaving  the  men  as  they  are,  and  issuing  a  general 
pardon  to  the  women.  Rendalen,  the  head-master 
of  the  school,  is  constantly  bringing  up  this  topic, 
and  he  makes  it  the  chief  subject  for  discussion  in 
the  girls'  debating  society!  These  females  are 
going  to  be  emancipated.  A  pseudo-scientific  twist 
is  also  given  to  this  novel  by  the  introduction  of 
mesmerism  and  hypnotic  influence,  matters  in  which 
the  author  is  deeply  interested.  We  are  given  to 
understand  that  a  large  number  of  women  are 
annually  ruined,  not  by  their  lack  of  moral  con- 
viction and  will  power,  but  simply  by  the  hypnotic 
influence  of  men.  One  may  perhaps  reasonably 
doubt  the  ultimate  value  of  a  wide  dissemination 
of  this  great  idea,  especially  in  a  young  ladies' 
seminary.  To  the  unsympathetic  reader,  the  one 
question  that  will  keep  him  afloat  in  all  this  welter, 
is  not  concerned  with  pedagogy;  it  is  the  honest 
attempt  to  discover  why  the  book  bears  its  strange 

92 


BJORNSTJERNE   BJORNSON 

title.    Unfortunately  he  will  not  find  out  until  the 
last  leaf.    Then 

"the  connexion  of  which  with  the  plot  one  sees." 

It  is  pleasant  to  take  up  the  volume  In  God's 
Way,  for,  however  disappointing  it  may  be  to  those 
who  know  the  young  Bjornson,  it  is  vastly  superior 
to  Flags.  It  is  what  is  called  to-day  a  "strong" 
novel,  and  has  naturally  evoked  the  widest  variation 
of  comment.  By  many  it  has  been  greeted  with 
enthusiastic  admiration  and  by  many  with  out- 
spoken disgust.  Psychologically,  it  is  indeed  power- 
ful. The  characters  are  interesting,  and  they  de- 
velop in  a  way  that  may  or  may  not  be  God's,  but 
resemble  His  in  being  mysterious.  One  cannot 
foresee  in  the  early  chapters  what  is  going  to  happen 
to  the  dramatis  persona,  nor  what  is  to  be  our  final 
attitude  toward  any  of  them.  Think  of  the  impres- 
sion made  on  us  by  our  first  acquaintance  with 
Josephine,  or  Kallem,  or  Ragni,  or  Ole;  and  then 
compare  it  with  the  state  of  our  feelings  as  we  draw 
near  the  end.  Not  one  of  these  characters  remains 
the  same;  each  one  develops,  and  develops  as 
he  might  in  actual  life.  Bjornson  does  not  ap- 
proach his  men  and  women  from  an  easy  chair, 
in  the  descriptive  manner;  once  created,  we  feel 
that  they  would  grow  without  his  aid. 

For  all  this  particular  triumph  of  art.  In  God's 

93 


ESSAYS   ON  MODERN   NOVELISTS 

Way  is  plainly  a  didactic  novel,  with  the  author 
preaching  from  beginning  to  end.  The  "fighting" 
quality  in  the  novelist  gets  the  better  of  his  literary 
genius.  We  have  a  story  in  the  extreme  realistic 
style,  marked  by  occasional  scenes  of  great  beauty 
and  force;  but  the  exposition  of  doctrine  is  some- 
what vague  and  confused,  and  the  construction  of 
the  whole  work  decidedly  inartistic.  Two  general 
points,  however,  are  made  clear:  First,  that  one  may 
walk  in  God's  way  without  believing  in  God.  Re- 
ligion is  of  no  importance  in  comparison  with  con- 
duct, nor  have  the  two  things  any  vital  or  necessary 
connexion.  This  is  a  modern  view,  and  perhaps 
a  natural  reaction  from  the  strictness  of  Bj5mson's 
childhood  training.  Second,  that  virtue  is  a  matter 
entirely  of  the  heart,  bearing  no  relation  whatever 
to  the  statute-book.  A  woman  may  be  legally  an 
adulteress  and  yet  absolutely  pure.  This  also  is 
quite  familiar  to  us  in  the  pages  of  modern  drama- 
tists and  novelists.  Bjornson  has  taken  an  ex- 
traordinary instance  to  prove  his  thesis,  a  thesis 
that  perhaps  needs  no  emphasis,  for  human  nature 
is  only  too  well  disposed  to  make  its  moral  creed 
coincide  with  its  bodily  instincts. 

The  same  theme  —  mental  as  opposed  to  physical 
female  chastity  —  is  the  leading  idea  of  Mary,  a 
novel  that  has  had  considerable  success  in  Norway 
and  in  Germany,  but  has  only  this  year  been  trans- 

94 


BJORNSTJERNE   BJORNSON 

lated  into  English.  This  work  of  his  old  age  shows 
not  the  slightest  trace  of  decay.  It  is  an  interesting 
and  powerful  analysis  of  a  girl's  heart,  written  in 
short,  vigorous  sentences.  Mary,  after  taking  plenty 
of  time  for  reflexion,  and  without  any  solicitation, 
deliberately  gives  herself  to  her  lover,  in  a  manner 
exactly  similar  to  a  scene  in  Maupassant's  novel, 
Noire  Cam.  Her  fianc^  is  naturally  amazed,  as 
there  has  been  nothing  leading  up  to  this;  she 
comes  to  him  of  her  own  free  will.  Her  theory  of 
conduct  (which  exemplifies  that  of  Bjornson)  is 
that  a  woman  is  the  sovereign  mistress  of  her  own 
body,  and  can  do  what  she  pleases.  There  is  nothing 
immoral  in  a  woman's  free  gift  of  herself  to  her 
lover,  provided  she  does  it  out  of  her  royal  bounty, 
and  not  as  a  weak  yielding  to  masculine  pursuit. 
The  next  day  Mary  is  grievously  disappointed  to 
discover  that,  instead  of  the  homage  and  worship 
she  expected,  the  erstwhile  timid  lover  glories  in 
the  sense  of  possession.  She  fears  that  she  cannot 
live  an  absolutely  independent  life  with  such  a 
husband  —  and  Bjomson's  gospel  is,  of  course,  the 
untrammelled  freedom  of  woman.  So,  although 
she  is  about  to  become  a  mother,  she  deliberately 
cancels  the  engagement  to  the  putative  child's 
father;  this  puzzles  him  even  more  than  her  previous 
conduct,  though  he  is  forced  to  acquiesce.  Then, 
in  a  final  access  of  despair,  as  she  is  about  to  commit 

95 


ESSAYS   ON  MODERN  NOVELISTS 

suicide,  she  is  rescued  by  a  man  whose  love  is  like 
the  moth's  for  the  star  —  who  tells  her  that  no  matter 
what  she  has  done,  she  is  the  noblest,  purest  woman 
on  earth,  and  the  chaste  queen  of  his  heart.  Thus, 
by  a  stroke  of  good  fortune,  rather  than  by  any- 
thing inevitable  in  the  story,  the  book  ends  happily, 
with  Mary  and  her  second  adoring  lover  in  the  very 
delirium  of  joy.  It  is  evident  that  the  novel  is 
nothing  but  a  Tendenz-Roman;  Bjornson  wishes 
us  to  approve  of  his  heroine's  conduct  throughout 
—  of  the  entirely  unnecessary  sacrifice  of  her  virtue, 
of  the  subsequent  sacrifice  of  her  reputation,  and 
of  her  remorseless  joy  in  the  arms  of  another  man. 
Such  is  to  be  the  doctrine  of  sex  equality;  men  are 
not  to  be  made  more  virtuous,  but  the  freedom 
of  women  is  not  only  to  be  pardoned,  but  ap- 
proved. 

In  comparing  the  three  late  with  the  four  early 
novels,  the  most  striking  change  is  instantly  apparent 
to  anyone  who  reads  Synnbve  Solbakken  and  then 
opens  In  God's  Way.  It  is  the  sudden  and  depress- 
ing change  of  air,  from  the  mountains  to  the  sick- 
room. The  abundance  of  medical  detail  in  the 
later  novel  is  almost  nauseating,  and  would  be 
wholly  so  were  it  not  absurd.  One  has  only  to 
compare  the  invigorating  scenery  and  the  simple 
love  scenes  in  SynnovS  with  the  minute  examination 
of  Ragni's   spittle    (for   tuberculosis)    in   the  other 

96 


BJORNSTJERNE   BJORNSON 

book  —  but  enough  is  said.  Despite  all  that  has 
been  written  in  praise  of  Bjornson's  "courage" 
in  dealing  with  problems  of  sex  and  disease,  I  sym- 
pathise with  the  cry  of  his  friend  in  1879:  — 

"  Come  back  again,  dear  Bjornson,  come  back ! " 

It  is  easy  to  see  that  the  influence  of  modern 
English  scepticism  cannot  account  entirely  for  the 
revolution  in  the  Norwegian's  mind  and  art.  We 
can  clearly  observe  an  attraction  much  nearer, 
that  has  drawn  this  luminous  star  so  far  out  of  its 
course.  It  is  none  other  than  the  mighty  Ibsen. 
Ibsen's  analysis  of  disease,  his  examination  of 
marriage  problems,  his  Ishmaelite  attacks  on  the 
present  structure  of  civilised  society  —  all  this 
has  had  its  effect  on  his  contemporary  and  country- 
man. As  a  destructive  force  Ibsen  was  stronger 
than  Bjornson,  because  he  was  ruthless.  But  one 
had  the  courage  of  despair,  while  the  other  has  the 
courage  of  hope.  Bjornson  docs  not  believe  in 
Fate  and  is  not  afraid  of  it.  He  loves  and  believes 
in  humanity.  His  gloomiest  books  end  with  a 
vision.  There  is  always  a  rift  in  the  clouds. 
Throughout  all  his  career  he  has  set  his  face  stead- 
fastly toward  what  he  has  taken  to  be  the  true  light. 
Such  men  compel  admiration,  no  matter  whose 
colours  they  bear.  And  however  much  we  may 
deplore  his  present  course,  we  cannot  now  echo  the 
H  97 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

cry  of  his  friend  and  say,  "Come  back!"  The 
language  of  the  poet  better  expresses  our  atti- 
tude :  — 

"Life's  night  begins:  let  him  never  come  back  to  us! 
There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation,  and  pain, 
Forced  praise  on  our  part  —  the  glimmer  of  twilight, 
Never  glad  confident  morning  again ! 
Best  fight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him  —  strike  gallantly, 
Menace  our  heart  ere  we  master  his  own ; 
Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge  and  wait  us, 
Pardoned  in  heaven,  the  first  by  the  throne!" 


98 


MARK  TWAIN 

During  the  last  twenty  years,  a  profound  change 
has  taken  place  in  the  attitude  of  the  reading  public 
toward  Mark  Twain.  I  can  remember  very  well 
when  he  was  regarded  merely  as  a  humorist,  and 
one  opened  his  books  with  an  anticipatory  grin. 
Very  few  supposed  that  he  belonged  to  literature; 
and  a  complete,  uniform  edition  of  his  Works 
would  perhaps  have  been  received  with  something 
of  the  m-ockery  that  greeted  Ben  Jonson's  folio  in 
1616.  Professor  Richardson's  American  Literature, 
which  is  still  a  standard  work,  appeared  originally 
in  1886.  My  copy,  which  bears  the  date  1892, 
contains  only  two  references  in  the  index  to  Mark 
Twain,  while  Mr.  Cable,  for  example,  receives  ten; 
and  the  whole  volume  fills  exactly  nine  hundred  and 
ninety  pages.  Looking  up  one  of  the  two  refer- 
ences, we  find  the  following  opinion :  — 

"But  there  is  a  class  of  writers,  authors  ranking  below 
Irving  or  Lowell,  and  lacking  the  higher  artistic  or  moral 
purpose  of  the  greater  humorists,  who  amuse  a  generation 
and  then  pass  from  sight.     Every  period  demands  a  new 

99 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

manner  of  jest,  after  the  current  fashion.  .  .  .  The  reigning 
favourites  of  the  day  are  Frank  R.  Stockton,  Joel  Chandler 
Harris,  the  various  newspaper  jokers,  and  'Mark  Twain.' 
But  the  creators  of  'Pomona'  and  'Rudder  Grange,'  of  'Uncle 
Remus  and  his  Folk-lore  Stories,'  and  'Innocents  Abroad,' 
clever  as  they  are,  must  make  hay  while  the  sun  shines. 
Twenty  years  hence,  unless  they  chance  to  enshrine  their 
wit  in  some  higher  literary  achievement,  their  unknown  suc- 
cessors will  be  the  privileged  comedians  of  the  republic. 
Humour  alone  never  gives  its  masters  a  place  in  literature; 
it  must  coexist  with  literary  qualities,  and  must  usually 
be  joined  with  such  pathos  as  one  finds  in  Lamb,  Hood, 
Irving,  or  Holmes." 

It  is  interesting  to  remember  that  before  this 
pronouncement  was  pubhshed,  Tom  Sawyer  and 
Huckleberry  Finn  had  been  read  by  thousands. 
Professor  Richardson  continued:  "Two  or  three 
divisions  of  American  humour  deserve  somewhat 
more  respectful  treatment,"  and  he  proceeds  to  give 
a  full  page  to  Petroleum  V.  Nasby,  another  page  to 
Artemus  Ward,  and  two  and  one-half  pages  to  Josh 
Billings,  while  Mark  Twain  had  received  less  than 
four  lines.  After  stating  that,  in  the  case  of  authors 
like  Mark  Twain,  "temporary  amusement,  not 
literary  product,  is  the  thing  sought  and  given," 
Professor  Richardson  announces  that  the  depart- 
ment of  fiction  will  be  considered  later.  In  this 
"department,"  Mark  Twain  is  not  mentioned  at  all, 
although  Julian  Hawthorne  receives  over  three  pages  1 

lOO 


MARK   TWAIN 

I  have  quoted  Professor  Richardson  at  length, 
because  he  is  a  deservedly  high  authority,  and  well 
represents  an  attitude  toward  Mark  Twain  that  was 
common  all  during  the  eighties.  Another  college  pro- 
fessor, who  is  to-day  one  of  the  best  living  American 
critics,  says,  in  his  Initial  Studies  in  American  Letters 
(1895),  "Though  it  would  be  ridiculous  to  maintain 
that  either  of  these  writers  [Artemus  Ward  and  Mark 
Twain]  takes  rank  with  Lowell  and  Holmes,  .  .  . 
still  it  will  not  do  to  ignore  them  as  mere  buffoons, 
or  even  to  predict  that  their  himiours  will  soon  be 
forgotten."  There  is  no  allusion  in  his  book  to 
Tom  Sawyer  or  Huckleberry  Finn,  nor  does  the 
critic  seem  to  regard  their  creator  as  in  any  sense 
a  novelist.  Still  another  writer,  in  a  passing  allusion 
to  Mark  Twain,  says,  "Only  a  very  small  portion 
of  his  writing  has  any  place  as  literature." 

Literary  opinions  change  as  time  progresses;  and 
no  one  could  have  observed  the  remarkable  dem- 
onstration at  the  seventieth  birthday  of  our  great 
national  humorist  without  feeling  that  most  of 
his  contemporaries  regarded  him,  not  as  their  peer, 
but  as  their  Chief.  Without  wishing  to  make  any 
invidious  comparisons,  I  cannot  refrain  from  com- 
menting on  the  statement  that  it  would  be  "ridicu- 
lous" to  maintain  that  Mark  Twain  takes  rank 
with  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  It  is,  of  course, 
absolutely  impossible  to  predict  the  future;  the  only 


ESSAYS   ON  MODERN  NOVELISTS 

real  test  of  the  value  of  a  book  is  Time.  Who  now 
reads  Cowley?  Time  has  laughed  at  so  many 
contemporary  judgements  that  it  would  be  fool- 
hardy to  make  positive  assertions  about  literary 
stock  quotations  one  hundred  years  from  now. 
Still,  guesses  are  not  prohibited;  and  I  think  it 
not  unlikely  that  the  name  of  Mark  Twain  will  out- 
last the  name  of  Holmes.  American  Literature 
would  surely  be  the  poorer  if  the  great  Boston 
Brahmin  had  not  enlivened  it  with  his  rich  humour, 
his  lambent  wit,  and  his  sincere  pathos;  but  the 
whole  content  of  his  work  seems  slighter  than  the 
big  American  prose  epics  of  the  man  of  our  day. 

Indeed,  it  seems  to  me  that  Mark  Twain  is  our 
foremost  living  American  writer.  He  has  not  the 
subtlety  of  Henry  James  or  the  wonderful  charm 
of  Mr.  Howells;  he  could  not  have  written  Daisy 
Miller,  or  A  Modern  Instance,  or  Indian  Summer, 
or  The  Kentons  —  books  which  exhibit  literary 
quality  of  an  exceedingly  high  order.  I  have  read 
them  over  and  over  again,  with  constantly  increas- 
ing profit  and  delight.  I  wish  that  Mr.  Howells 
might  live  for  ever,  and  give  to  every  generation 
the  pure  intellectual  joy  that  he  has  given  to  ours. 
'/  But  the  natural  endowment  of  Mark  Twain  is  still 

greater.  Mr.  Howells  has  made  the  most  of  him- 
self; God  has  done  it  all  for  Mark  Twain.  If 
there  be  a  living  American  writer  touched  with  true 

I02 


MARK  TWAIN 

genius,  whose  books  glow  with  the  divine  fire,  it 
is  he.  He  has  ahvays  been  a  conscientious  artist; 
but  no  amount  of  industry  could  ever  have  produced 
a  Huckleberry  Finn. 

When  I  was  a  child  at  the  West  Middle  Grammar 
School  of  Hartford,  on  one  memorable  April  day, 
Mark  Twain  addressed  the  graduating-class.  I 
was  thirteen  years  old,  but  I  have  found  it  impossible 
to  forget  what  he  said.  The  subject  of  his  "re- 
marks" was  Methuselah.  He  informed  us  that 
Methuselah  lived  to  the  ripe  old  age  of  nine  hundred 
and  sixty-nine.  But  he  might  as  well  have  lived 
to  be  several  thousand  —  nothing  happened.  The 
speaker  told  us  that  we  should  all  live  longer  than 
Methuselah.  Fifty  years  of  Europe  are  better  than 
a  cycle  of  Cathay,  and  twenty  years  of  modern 
American  life  are  longer  and  richer  in  content  than  the 
old  patriarch's  thousand.  Ours  will  be  the  true  age 
in  which  to  live,  when  more  will  happen  in  a  day 
than  in  a  year  of  the  flat  existence  of  our  ancestors. 
I  cannot  remember  his  words;  but  what  a  fine  thing 
it  is  to  hear  a  speech,  and  carry  away  an  idea ! 

I  have  since  observed  that  this  idea  runs  through 
much  of  his  literary  work.  His  philosophy  of  life 
underlies  his  broadest  burlesque  —  for  A  Connecti- 
cut Yankee  in  King  Arthurs  Court  is  simply  an  ex- 
posure of  the  "good  old  times."  Mark  Twain 
believes  in  the  Present,  in  human  progress.    Too 

103 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

often  do  we  apprehend  the  Middle  Ages  through 
the  glowing  pages  of   Spenser   and  Walter   Scott; 
we   see   only  glittering  processions  of  ladies  dead 
and   lovely   knights.     Mark   Twain   shows   us   the 
wretched   condition   of   the   common   people,   their 
utter    ignorance    and    degradation,    the    coarseness 
and    immorality    of    technical    chivalry,    the    cruel 
and   unscrupulous   ecclesiastical    tyranny,  and   the 
capricious    insolence    of    the    barons.     One    may 
regret   that   he   has   reversed   the   dynamics   in   so 
glorious  a  book  as  Malory's  Morte  d' Arthur,  but, 
through  all  the  buffoonery  and  roaring  mirth  with 
which  the  knights  in  armour  are  buried,  the  artistic 
and   moral  purpose  of   the   satirist  is  clear.    If  I 
understand  him  rightly,  he  would  have  us  believe 
that  our  age,  not  theirs,  is  the   "good   time";   nay, 
ours  is  the  age  of  magic  and  wonder.     We  need 
not  regret  in  melancholy  sentimentality  the  pictur- 
esqueness  of  bygone  days,  for  we  ourselves  live,  not 
in   a   material  and   commonplace   generation,   but 
in  the  very  midst  of  miracles  and  romance.     Merlin 
and  the  Fay  Morgana  would  have  given  all  their 
petty  skill  to  have  been  able  to  use  a  telephone  or 
a  phonograph,  or  to  see  a  moving  picture.    The 
sleeping    princess   and    her   castle   were    awakened 
by  a  kiss;    but  in  the  twentieth  century  a  man  in 
Washington    touches    a    button,    and    hundreds    of 
miles  away  tons  of  machinery  begin  to  move,  foun- 

104 


MARK   TWAIN 

tains  begin  to  play,  and  the  air  resounds  with  the 
whir  of  wheels.  In  comparison  with  to-day,  the 
age  of  chivalry  seems  dull  and  poor.  Even  in 
chivalry  itself  our  author  is  more  knightly  than 
Lancelot;  for  was  there  ever  a  more  truly  chivalrous 
performance  than  Mark  Twain's  essay  on  Harriet 
Shelley,  or  his  literary  monument  to  Joan  of  Arc? 
In  these  earnest  pages,  our  national  humorist 
appears  as  the  true  knight. 

Mark  Twain's  humour  is  purely  American.  It 
is  not  the  humour  of  Washington  Irving,  which 
resembles  that  of  Addison  and  Thackeray;  it  is 
not  delicate  and  indirect.  It  is  genial,  sometimes 
outrageous,  mirth  —  laughter  holding  both  his 
sides.  I  have  found  it  difficult  to  read  him  in  a 
library  or  on  a  street-car,  for  explosions  of  pent-up 
mirth  or  a  distorted  face  are  apt  to  attract  unpleas- 
ant attention  in  such  public  places.  Mark  Twain's 
humour  is  boisterous,  uproarious,  colossal,  over- 
whelming. As  has  often  been  remarked,  the  Ameri- 
cans are  not  naturally  a  gay  people,  like  the  French ; 
nor  are  we  light-hearted  and  careless,  like  the  Irish 
and  the  Negro.  At  heart,  we  are  intensely  serious, 
nervous,  melancholy.  For  humour,  therefore,  we 
naturally  turn  to  buffoonery  and  burlesque,  as  a 
reaction  against  the  strain  and  tension  of  life.  Our 
attitude  is  something  like  that  of  the  lonely  author 
of  the  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  who    used  to  lean 

los 


ESSAYS   ON  MODERN  NOVELISTS 

over  the  parapet  of  Magdalen  Bridge,  and  shake 
with  mirth  at  the  obscene  jokes  of  the  bargemen. 
We  like  Mark  Twain's  humour,  not  because  we  are 
frivolous,  but  because  we  are  just  the  reverse.  I 
have  never  known  a  frivolous  person  who  really 
enjoyed  or  appreciated  Mark  Twain. 

The  essence  of  Mark  Twain's  humour  is  Incon- 
gruity. The  jumping  frog  is  named  Daniel  Webster; 
and,  indeed,  the  intense  gravity  of  a  frog's  face, 
with  the  droop  at  the  corners  of  the  mouth,  might 
well  be  envied  by  many  an  American  Senator. 
When  the  shotted  frog  vainly  attempted  to  leave 
the  earth,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  "like  a  French- 
man." Bilgewater  and  the  Dolphin  on  the  raft 
are  grotesquely  incongruous  figures.  The  rescuing 
of  Jim  from  his  prison  cell  is  full  of  the  most  incon- 
gruous ideas,  his  common-sense  attitude  toward  the 
whole  transaction  contrasting  strangely  with  that 
of  the  romantic  Tom.  Along  with  the  constant 
incongruity  goes  the  element  of  surprise  —  which 
Professor  Beers  has  well  pointed  out.  When  one 
begins  a  sentence,  in  an  apparently  serious  discus- 
sion, one  never  knows  how  it  will  end.  In  dis- 
cussing the  peace  that  accompanies  religious  faith, 
Mark  Twain  says  that  he  has  often  been  impressed 
with  the  calm  confidence  of  a  Christian  with  four 
aces.  Exaggeration  —  deliberate,  enormous  hyper- 
bole —  is  another  feature.     Rudyard   Kipling,  who 

1 06 


MARK   TWAIN 

has  been  profoundly  influenced  by  Mark  Twain, 
and  has  learned  much  from  him,  often  employs 
the  same  device,  as  in  Brugglesmith.  Irreverence 
is  also  a  noteworthy  quality.  In  his  travel-books, 
we  are  given  the  attitude  of  the  typical  American 
Philistine  toward  the  wonders  and  sacred  relics  of 
the  Old  World,  the  whole  thing  being  a  gigantic 
burlesque  on  the  sentimental  guide-books  which 
were  so  much  in  vogue  before  the  era  of  Baedeker. 
With  such  continuous  fun  and  mirth,  satire  and 
burlesque,  it  is  no  wonder  that  Mark  Twain  should 
not  always  be  at  his  best.  He  is  doubtless  some- 
times flat,  sometimes  coarse,  as  all  humorists  since 
Rabelais  have  been.  The  wonder  is  that  his  level 
has  been  so  high.  I  remember,  just  before  the 
appearance  of  Following  the  Equator,  I  had  been 
told  that  Mark  Twain's  inspiration  was  finally 
gone,  and  that  he  could  not  be  funny  if  he  tried. 
To  test  this,  I  opened  the  new  book,  and  this  is 
what  I  found  on  the  first  page :  — 

"We  sailed  for  America,  and  there  made  certain  prepara- 
tions. This  took  but  little  time.  Two  members  of  my 
family  elected  to  go  with  me.  Also  a  carbuncle.  The  dic- 
tionary says  a  carbuncle  is  a  kind  of  jewel.  Humour  is  out 
of  place  in  a  dictionary." 

Although  Mark  Twain  has  the  great  qualities  of 
the  true  humorist  —  common  sense,  human  sym- 
pathy, and  an  accurate  eye  for  proportion  —  he  is 

107 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

much  more  than  a  humorist.  His  work  shows 
high  hterary  quality,  the  quality  that  appears  in 
first-rate  novels.  He  has  shown  himself  to  be  a 
genuine  artist.  He  has  done  something  which 
many  popular  novelists  have  signally  failed  to  ac- 
complish —  he  has  created  real  characters.  His 
two  wonderful  boys,  Tom  Sawyer  and  Huckleberry 
Finn,  are  wonderful  in  quite  different  ways.  The 
creator  of  Tom  exhibited  remarkable  observation; 
the  creator  of  Huck  showed  the  divine  touch  of 
imagination.  Tom  is  the  American  boy  —  he  is 
"smart."  In  having  his  fence  whitewashed,  in 
controlling  a  pool  of  Sabbath-school  tickets  at  the 
precise  psychological  moment,  he  displays  abundant 
promise  of  future  success  in  business.  Huck,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  the  child  of  nature,  harmless,  sin- 
cere, and  crudely  imaginative.  His  reasonings  with 
Jim  about  nature  and  God  belong  to  the  same 
department  of  natural  theology  as  that  illustrated 
in  Browning's  Caliban.  The  night  on  the  raft  with 
Jim,  when  these  two  creatures  look  aloft  at  the  stars, 
and  Jim  reckons  the  moon  laid  them,  is  a  case  in 
point. 

"We  had  the  sky  up  there,  all  speckled  with  stars,  and  we 
used  to  lay  on  our  backs  and  look  up  at  them,  and  discuss 
about  whether  they  was  made  or  just  happened.  Jim  he 
allowed  they  was  made,  but  I  allowed  they  happened;  I 
judged  it  would  have  took  too  long  to  make  so  many.  Jim 
said  the  moon  could  a  laid  them;    well,  that  looked  kind 

108 


MARK  TWAIN 

of  reasonable,  so  I  didn't  say  nothing  against  it,  because  I've 
seen  a  frog  lay  most  as  many,  so  of  course  it  could  be  done. 
We  used  to  watch  the  stars  that  fell,  too,  and  see  them  streak 
down.  Jim  allowed  they'd  got  spoiled  and  was  hove  out  of 
the  nest." 

Again,  Mark  Twain  has  so  much  dramatic  power 
that,  were  his  literary  career  beginning  instead  of 
closing,  he  might  write  for  us  the  great  American 
play  that  we  are  still  awaiting.  The  story  of  the 
feud  between  the  Grangerfords  and  the  Shepherd- 
sons  is  thrillingly  dramatic,  and  the  tragic  cUmax 
seizes  the  heart.  The  shooting  of  the  drunken 
Boggs,  the  gathering  of  the  mob,  and  its  control 
by  one  masterful  personality,  belong  essentially  to 
true  drama,  and  are  written  with  power  and  insight. 
The  pathos  of  these  scenes  is  never  false,  never 
mawkish  or  overdone;  it  is  the  pathos  of  life  itself. 
Mark  Twain's  extraordinary  skill  in  descriptive 
passages  shows,  not  merely  keen  observation,  but 
the  instinct  for  the  specific  word  —  the  one  word 
that  is  always  better  than  any  of  its  synonyms,  for 
it  makes  the  picture  real  —  it  creates  the  illusion, 
which  is  the  essence  of  all  literary  art.  The  storm, 
for  example :  — 

"It  was  my  watch  below  till  twelve,  but  I  wouldn't  a  turned 
in  anyway  if  I'd  had  a  bed,  because  a  body  don't  see  such  a 
storm  as  that  every  day  in  the  week,  not  by  a  long  sight.  My 
souls,  how  the  wind  did  scream  along!  |_And  every  second 
or  two  there'd  come  a  glare  that  lit  up  the  white-caps  for  a 

109 


ESSAYS   ON  MODERN  NOVELISTS 

half  a  mile  around,  and  you'd  see  the  islands  looking  dusty 
through  the  rain,  and  the  trees  thrashing  around  in  the  wind; 
then  comes  a  h-wach  I  —  bum !  bum !  bumble-umble-um- 
bum-bum-bum-bum  —  and  the  thunder  would  go  rumbling 
and  grumbling  away,  and  quit  —  and  then  rip  comes  another 
flash  and  another  sockdolagen]  The  waves  'most  washed 
me  ofif  the  raft  sometimes,  but  I  hadn't  any  clothes  on,  and 
didn't  mind.  We  didn't  have  no  trouble  about  snags;  the 
lightning  was  glaring  and  flittering  around  so  constant  that 
we  could  see  them  plenty  soon  enough  to  throw  her  head  this 
way  or  that  and  miss  them." 

Tom  Sawyer  and  Huckleberry  Finn  are  prose 
epics  of  American  life.  The  former  is  one  of  those 
books  —  of  which  The  Pilgrim'' s  Progress,  GtilUver's 
Travels,  and  Robinson  Crusoe  are  supreme  examples 
—  that  are  read  at  different  periods  of  one's  life 
from  very  dififerent  points  of  view;  so  that  it  is  not 
easy  to  say  when  one  enjoys  them  the  most  —  before 
one  understands  their  real  significance  or  after. 
Nearly  all  healthy  boys  enjoy  reading  Totn  Sawyer, 
because  the  intrinsic  interest  of  the  story  is  so  great, 
and  the  various  adventures  of  the  hero  are  portrayed 
with  such  gusto.  Yet  it  is  impossible  to  outgrow 
the  book.  The  eternal  Boy  is  there,  and  one  can- 
not appreciate  the  nature  of  boyhood  properly  until 
one  has  ceased  to  be  a  boy.  The  other  masterpiece, 
Huckleberry  Finn,  is  really  not  a  child's  book  at  all. 
Children  devour  it,  but  they  do  not  digest  it.  It 
is  a  permanent  picture  of  a  certain  period  of  Ameri- 


MARK  TWAIN 

can  history,  and  this  picture  is  made  complete, 
not  so  much  by  the  striking  portraits  of  individuals 
placed  on  the  huge  canvas,  as  by  the  vital  unity  of 
the  whole  composition.  If  one  wishes  to  know 
what  life  on  the  Mississippi  really  was,  to  know 
and  understand  the  peculiar  social  conditions  of 
that  highly  exciting  time,  one  has  merely  to  read 
through  this  powerful  narrative,  and  a  definite, 
coherent,  vivid  impression  remains. 

By  those  who  have  lived  there,  and  whose  minds 
are  comparatively  free  from  prejudice,  Mark  Twain's 
pictures  of  life  in  the  South  before  the  war  are  re- 
garded as,  on  the  whole,  nearer  the  truth  than  those 
supplied  by  any  other  artist.  One  reason  for  this 
is  the  aim  of  the  author;  he  was  not  trying  to  support 
or  to  defend  any  particular  theory  —  no,  his  aim 
was  purely  and  wholly  artistic.  In  Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin,  a  book  by  no  means  devoid  of  literary  art, 
the  red-hot  indignation  of  the  author  largely  nullified 
her  evident  desire  to  tell  the  truth.  If  one  succeeds 
in  telling  the  truth  about  anything  whatever,  one 
must  have  something  more  than  the  desire  to  tell 
the  truth;  one  must  know  how  to  do  it.  False 
impressions  do  not  always,  probably  do  not  com- 
monly, come  from  deliberate  liars.  Mrs.  Stowe's 
astonishing  work  is  not  really  the  history  of  slavery; 
it  is  the  history  of  abolition  sentiment.  On  the 
other  hand,  writers  so  graceful,  talented,  and  clever 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

as  Mr.  Page  and  Mr.  Hopkinson  Smith  do  not 
always  give  us  pictures  that  correctly  represent, 
except  locally,  the  actual  situation  before  the  war; 
for  these  gentlemen  seem  to  have  Uncle  Tom^s 
Cabin  in  mind.  Mark  Twain  gives  us  both  points 
of  view ;  he  shows  us  the  beautiful  side  of  slavery,  — 
for  it  had  a  wonderfully  beautiful,  patriarchal  side, 
—  and  he  also  shows  us  the  horror  of  it.  The  living 
dread  of  the  Negro  that  he  would  be  sold  down  the 
river,  has  never  been  more  vividly  represented  than 
when  the  poor  woman  in  Pudd'nhead  Wilson  sees 
the  water  swirling  against  the  snag,  and  realises 
that  she  is  bound  the  wrong  way.  That  one  scene 
makes  an  indelible  impression  on  the  reader's  mind, 
and  counteracts  tons  of  polemics.  The  peculiar 
harmlessness  of  Jim  is  beautiful  to  contemplate. 
Although  he  and  Huck  really  own  the  raft,  and  have 
taken  all  the  risk,  they  obey  implicitly  the  orders  of 
the  two  tramps  who  call  themselves  Duke  and  King. 
Had  that  been  a  raft  on  the  Connecticut  River, 
and  had  Huck  and  Jim  been  Yankees,  they  would 
have  said  to  the  intruders,  "Whose  raft  is  this, 
anyway?" 

Mark  Twain  may  be  trusted  to  tell  the  truth; 
for  the  eye  of  the  born  caricature  artist  always  sees 
the  salient  point.  Caricatures  often  give  us  a  better 
idea  of  their  object  than  a  photograph;  for  the 
things  that  are  exaggerated,  be  it  a  large  nose,  or 

112 


MARK  TWAIN 

a  long  neck,  are,  after  all,  the  things  that  differentiate 
this  particular  individual  from  the  mass.  Every- 
body remembers  how  Tweed  was  caught  by  one  of 
Nast's  cartoons. 

Mark  Twain  is  through  and  through  American. 
If  foreigners  really  wish  to  know  the  American 
spirit,  let  them  read  Mark  Twain.  He  is  far  more 
American  than  their  favourite  specimen,  Walt 
Whitman.  The  essentially  American  qualities  of 
common  sense,  energy,  enterprise,  good-humour, 
and  Philistinism  fairly  shriek  from  his  pages.  He 
reveals  us  in  our  limitations,  in  our  lack  of  appre- 
ciation of  certain  beautiful  things,  fully  as  well  as 
he  pictures  us  in  coarser  but  more  triumphant  aspects. 
It  is,  of  course,  preposterous  to  say  that  Americans 
are  totally  different  from  other  humans;  we  have 
no  monopoly  of  common  sense  and  good-humour, 
nor  are  we  all  hide-bound  Philistines.  But  there  is 
something  pronounced  in  the  American  character, 
and  the  books  of  jNIark  Twain  reveal  it.  He  has 
also  more  than  once  been  a  valuable  and  efficient 
champion.  Without  being  an  offensive  and  blatant 
Jingo,  I  think  he  is  content  to  be  an  xA.merican. 

Mark  Twain  is  our  great  Democrat.  Democracy 
is  his  political,  social,  and  moral  creed.  His  hatred 
of  snobbery,  affectation,  and  assumed  superiority 
is  total.  His  democracy  has  no  limits;  it  is  bottom- 
less and  far-reaching.  Nothing  seems  really  sacred 
I  113 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

to  him  except  the  sacred  right  of  every  individual 
to  do  exactly  as  he  pleases;  which  means,  of  course, 
that  no  one  can  interfere  with  another's  right,  for 
then  democracy  would  be  the  privilege  of  a  few, 
and  would  stultify  itself.  Not  only  does  the  spirit 
of  democracy  breathe  out  from  all  his  greater  books, 
but  it  is  shown  in  specific  instances,  such  as  Travel- 
ling with  a  Reformer;  and  INIark  Twain  has  more 
than  once  given  testimony  for  his  creed,  without 
recourse  to  the  pen. 

At  the  head  of  all  American  novelists,  living  and 
dead,  stands  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  unapproached, 
possibly  unapproachable.  His  fine  and  subtle 
art  is  an  altogether  different  thing  from  the  art  of 
our  mighty,  democratic,  national  humorist.  But 
Literature  is  wonderfully  diverse  in  its  content; 
and  the  historian  of  American  Letters,  in  the  far 
future,  will  probably  find  it  impossible  to  omit  the 
name  of  Mark  Twain. 


114 


VI 

HENRYK  SIENKIEWICZ 

In  a  private  letter  to  a  friend,  written  in  1896, 
the  late  Mr.  Charles  Dudley  Warner  remarked: 
"I  am  just  reading  Children  of  the  Soil,  which  I  got 
in  London  before  I  sailed.  It  confirms  me  in  my 
very  high  opinion  of  him.  I  said  the  other  day 
that  I  think  him  at  the  head  of  living  novelists, 
both  in  range,  grasp  of  a  historical  situation,  in- 
tuition and  knowledge  of  human  nature.  Com- 
parisons are  always  dangerous,  but  I  know  no 
historical  novelist  who  is  his  superior,  or  who  is 
more  successful  in  creating  characters.  His  canvas 
is  very  large,  and  in  the  beginning  of  his  historical 
romances  the  reader  needs  patience,  but  the  picture 
finally  comes  out  vividly,  and  the  episodes  in  the 
grand  story  are  perfectly  enthralling.  Of  his  novels 
of  modern  life  I  cannot  speak  too  highly.  The 
subtlety  of  his  analysis  is  wonderful,  and  the  shades 
of  character  are  delineated  by  slight  but  always 
telling  strokes.  There  is  the  same  reality  in  them 
that  is  in  his  romances.    As  to  the  secret  of  his 

"5 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

power,  who  can  say?  It  is  genius  (I  still  believe  in 
that  word)  but  re-enforced  by  very  hard  labour  and 
study,  by  much  reading,  and  by  acute  observation." 
This  letter  may  serve  as  an  excellent  summary 
of  the  opinions  of  many  intelligent  American  critics 
concerning  a  writer  whose  name  was  unknown  to 
us  in  1890,  and  of  whom  the  whole  world  was  talking 
in  1895.^  One  reason  —  apart  from  their  intrinsic 
excellence  —  for  the  Byronic  suddenness  of  the  fame 
of  the  Polish  Trilogy,  was  the  psychological  oppor- 
tuneness of  its  appearance.  In  England  and  in  Amer- 
ica the  recent  Romantic  Revival  was  at  its  flood; 
we  were  all  reading  historical  romances,  and  were 
hungry  for  more.  Sicnkiewicz  satisfied  us  by  provid- 
ing exactly  what  we  were  looking  for.  In  his  own 
country  he  was  idolised,  for  his  single  pen  had 
done  more  than  many  years  of  tumultuous  discussion, 
to  put  Poland  back  on  the  map  of  Europe.  At  the 
exercises  commemorating  the  five  hundredth  anni- 
versary of  the  University  of  Cracow,  the  late  Presi- 
dent Oilman,  who  had  the  well-deserved  honour 
of  speaking  for  the  universities  of  America,  said: 
"America  thanks  Poland  for  three  great  names: 
Copernicus,  to  whom  all  the  world  is  indebted; 
Kosciuszko,  who  spilled  his  blood  for  American 
independence;     and    Sienkicwicz,    whose    name    is 

'  His  name  docs  not  appear  in  standard  English  biographical 
dictionaries  or  literary  reference  books  for  1893  '^^  1894. 

116 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 

a  household  word  in  thousands  of  American  homes, 
and  who  has  introduced  Poland  to  the  American 
people."  ^ 

Sienkiewicz  was  born  in  1845.  After  student 
days  at  Warsaw,  he  came  over  in  1876-1877  to  CaH- 
fornia,  in  a  party  that  included  Madame  Modjeska. 
They  attempted  to  establish  a  kind  of  socialistic 
community,  which  bears  in  the  retrospect  a  certain 
resemblance  to  Brook  Farm.  Fortunately  for  the 
cause  of  art,  which  the  world  needs  more  than  it 
does  socialism,  the  enterprise  was  a  failure.  Sien- 
kiewicz returned  to  Poland,  and  began  his  literary 
career;  Madame  Modjeska  became  one  of  the 
chief  ornaments  of  the  English  stage  for  a  quarter 
of  a  century.  Her  ashes  now  rest  in  the  ancient 
Polish  city  where  President  Gilman  uttered  his  fine 
tribute  to  the  friend  of  her  youth. 

The  three  great  Polish  romances  were  all  written 
in  the  eighties;  and  at  about  the  same  time  the 
author  was  also  engaged  in  the  composition  of  purely 
realistic  work,  which  displays  his  powers  in  a  quite 
different  form  of  art,  and  constitutes  the  most  original 
—  though  not  the  most  popular  —  part  of  his  literary 
production.  The  Children  of  the  Soil,  which  some 
of  the  elect  in  Poland  consider  his  masterpiece, 
is  a  novel,  constructed  and  executed  in  the  strictest 

'  See  an  interesting  article  in  the  Outlook  for  3  August,  1901, 
A  Visit  to  Sienkiewicz,  by  L.  E.  Van  Norman. 

117 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

style  of  realism;  Without  Dogma  is  still  farther 
removed  from  the  Romantic  manner,  for  it  is 
a  story  of  psychological  analytical  introspection. 
Sienkiewicz  himself  regards  Children  of  the  Soil 
as  his  favourite,  although  he  is  "not  prepared  to  say 
just  why."  And  Without  Dogma  he  thinks  to  be 
"in  many  respects  my  strongest  work."  It  is 
evident  that  he  does  not  consider  himself  primarily 
a  maker  of  stirring  historical  romance.  But  in 
the  nineties  he  returned  to  this  form  of  fiction, 
producing  his  Roman  panorama  called  Quo  Vadis, 
which,  although  it  has  made  the  biggest  noise  of 
all  his  books,  is  perhaps  the  least  valuable.  Like 
Ben  Hur,  it  was  warmed  over  into  a  tremendously 
successful  melodrama,  and  received  the  final  com- 
pliment of  parody.^  Toward  the  close  of  the  cen- 
tury, Sienkiewicz  completed  another  massive  his- 
torical romance,  The  Knights  of  the  Cross,  which, 
in  its  abundant  action,  striking  characterisation, 
and  charming  humour,  recalled  the  Trilogy;  this 
was  followed  by  On  the  Field  of  Glory,  and  we  may 
confidently  expect  more,  though  never  too  much; 
he  simply  could  not  be  dull  if  he  tried. 

In  a  time  like  ours,  when  literary  tabloids  take 
the  place  of  wholesome  mental  food,  when  many 

*  One  of  the  most  grotesque  and  laughable  burlesques  ever  seen 
on  the  American  stage  was  the  travesty  of  Quo  Vadis,  with  the 
heroine  Lithia,  who  drew  a  lobster  on  the  sand:  the  strong  man, 
Zero,  wrenched  the  neck  off  a  wild  borax. 
Il8 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 

successful  novels  can  be  read  at  a  sitting  or  a  lying 
—  requiring  no  exertion  either  of  soul  or  body  — • 
the  portentous  size  of  these  Polish  stories  is  a  mag- 
nificent challenge.  If  some  books  are  to  be  tasted, 
others  to  be  swallowed,  and  some  few  to  be  chewed 
and  digested,  what  shall  we  do  with  Sienkiewicz? 
In  Mr.  Curtin's  admirable  translation,  the  Trilogy 
covers  over  twenty-five  hundred  closely  printed 
pages ;  the  Knights  of  the  Cross  over  seven  hundred 
and  fifty.  Children  of  the  Soil  over  six  hundred  and 
fifty;  Without  Dogma  (Englished  by  another  hand) 
has  been  silently  so  much  abridged  in  translation 
that  we  do  not  know  what  its  actual  length  may 
be.  We  do  not  rebel,  because  the  next  chapter 
is  invariably  not  a  task,  but  a  temptation ;  but  when 
we  wake  up  with  a  start  at  the  call  Finis,  which 
magic  word  transfers  us  from  the  seventeenth  to  the 
twentieth  century,  and  contemplate  the  vast  fabric 
of  our  dream,  we  cannot  help  asking  if  there  is  any 
law  in  the  construction  that  requires  so  much 
material.  Gogol,  in  his  astonishing  romance,  Taras 
Bulba,  which  every  lover  of  Sienkiewicz  should 
read,  gives  us  the  same  impression  of  Vastness,  in 
a  book  Lilliputian  in  size.  Nor  is  there  any  ap- 
parent reason  why  the  Polish  narratives  should 
stop  on  the  last  page,  nor  indeed  stop  at  all. 
Combat  succeeds  combat,  when  in  the  midst  of 
the  hurly-burly,  the  Master  of  the  Show  calls  time. 

119 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

It  is  his  arbitrary  will,  rather  than  any  inevitable 
succession  of  events,  that  shuts  off  the  scene:  the 
men  might  be  fighting  yet.  This  passion  for  mere 
detail  mars  the  first  part  of  With  Fire  and  Sword; 
one  cannot  see  the  forest  for  the  trees. 

One  reason  for  this  immensity  is  the  author's 
desire  to  be  historically  accurate,  the  besetting  sin 
of  many  recent  dramas  and  novels.  Before  begin- 
ning to  write,  Sienkiewicz  reads  all  the  authorities 
and  documentary  evidence  he  can  find.  The  result 
is  plainly  seen  in  the  early  pages  of  With  Fire  and 
Sword,  which  read  far  more  like  a  history  than  like 
a  work  of  fiction  —  note  the  striking  contrast  in 
Pan  Michael  I  The  Knights  of  the  Cross  appeared 
with  maps.  The  topography  of  Quo  Vadis  was  so 
carefully  prepared  that  it  almost  serves  as  a  guide- 
book to  ancient  Rome.  Now  the  relation  of  History 
to  Fiction  has  never  been  better  stated  than  by 
Lessing:  "The  dramatist  uses  history,  not  be- 
cause it  has  happened,  but  because  it  has  so  hap- 
pened that  he  could  scarcely  find  anything  else 
better  adapted  to  his  purpose."  No  work  of  fiction 
has  ever  gained  immortality  by  its  historical  accuracy. 

Everyone  notices  that  the  works  of  Sienkiewicz 
are  Epics  rather  than  Novels.  Even  bearing  Field- 
ing clearly  in  mind,  there  is  no  better  illustration 
to  be  found  in  literary  history.  The  Trilogy  bears 
the  same  relation  to  the  wars  of  Poland  that  the 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 

Iliad  bears  to  the  struggle  at  Troy.  The  scope  and 
flow  of  the  narrative,  the  power  of  the  scenes,  the 
vast  perspective,  the  portraits  of  individual  heroes, 
the  impassioned  poetry  of  the  style  —  all  these 
qualities  are  of  the  Epic.  The  intense  patriotism 
is  thrilling,  and  makes  one  envy  the  sensations  of 
native  readers.  And  yet  the  reasons  for  the  down- 
fall of  Poland  are  made  perfectly  clear. 

Is  the  romanticist  Sienkiewicz  an  original  writer? 
In  the  narrow  and  strict  sense  of  the  word,  I  think 
not.  He  is  eclectic  rather  than  original.  He  is 
a  skilful  fuscr  of  material,  like  Shakespeare.  At 
any  rate,  his  most  conspicuous  virtue  is  not  originality. 
He  has  enormous  force,  a  glorious  imagination, 
astonishing  facility,  and  a  remarkable  power  of  mak- 
ing pictures,  both  in  panorama  and  in  miniature; 
but  his  work  shows  constantly  the  inspiration  not 
only  of  his  historical  authorities,  but  of  previous 
poets  and  novelists.  Those  who  are  really  familiar 
with  the  writings  of  Homer,  Shakespeare,  Scott, 
and  Dumas,  will  not  require  further  comment  on 
this  point.  The  influence  of  Homer  is  seen  in  the 
constant  similes,  the  epithets  like  "incomparable 
bowman,"  and  the  stress  laid  on  the  deeds  of  in- 
dividual heroes;  a  thing  quite  natural  in  Homeric 
warfare,  but  rather  disquieting  in  the  days  of  villain- 
ous saltpetre.  The  three  swordsmen  in  With  Fire 
and  Sword  —  Pan  Yan,   Pan  Podbienta,  and   Pan 

121 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

Michael  —  infallibly  remind  us  of  Dumas's  three 
guardsmen;  and  the  great  duel  scenes  in  the  same 
story,  and  in  the  Knights  of  the  Cross,  are  quite  in 
the  manner  of  the  Frenchman.  Would  that  other 
writers  could  employ  their  reminiscences  to  such 
advantage !  In  the  high  colouring,  in  the  manage- 
ment of  historical  events,  and  in  patriotic  enthusiasm, 
we  cannot  help  thinking  of  Scott.  But  be  the  debt 
to  Dumas  and  to  Scott  as  great  as  one  pleases  to 
estimate,  I  am  free  to  acknowledge  that  I  find  the 
romances  of  the  Pole  more  enthralling  than  those 
of  either  or  both  of  his  two  great  predecessors. 

With  reference  to  the  much-discussed  character 
of  Zagloba,  I  confess  I  cannot  join  in  the  common 
verdict  that  pronounces  him  a  "new  creation  in 
literature."  Those  who  believe  this  delightful 
person  to  be  something  new  and  original  have  simply 
forgotten  Falstaff.  If  one  will  begin  all  over  again, 
and  read  the  two  parts  of  Henry  IV,  and  then  take 
a  look  at  Zagloba,  the  author  of  his  being  is  im- 
mediately apparent.  Zagloba  is  a  Polish  Falstaff, 
an  astonishingly  clever  imitation  of  the  real  thing. 
He  is  old,  white-haired,  fat,  a  resourceful  wit  and 
humorist,  better  at  bottles  than  at  battles,  and  yet 
bold  when  policy  requires :  in  every  essential  feature 
of  body  and  mind  he  resembles  the  immortal  crea- 
tion of  Shakespeare.  Sienkiewicz  develops  him  with 
subtle    skill    and    affectionate    solicitude,   even    as 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 

Dickens  developed  Mr.  Pickwick;  the  Zagloba  of 
Pan  Michael  is  far  sweeter  and  more  mellow  than 
when  we  make  his  acquaintance  in  the  first  volume 
of  the  Trilogy;  but  the  last  word  for  this  character 
is  the  word  "original."  The  real  triumph  of  Sien- 
kiewicz  in  the  portrayal  of  the  jester  is  in  the  fact 
that  he  could  imitate  Falstaff  without  spoiling  him, 
for  no  other  living  writer  could  have  done  it.  A 
copy  that  can  safely  be  placed  alongside  the  original 
implies  art  of  a  very  high  class.  To  see  Zagloba 
is  to  realise  the  truth  of  FalstafT's  remark,  "I  am 
not  only  witty  in  myself,  but  the  cause  that  wit  is 
in  other  men." 

Sienkiewicz  himself  perhaps  does  not  appreciate 
how  much  he  owes  to  Shakespeare,  or  possibly  he 
is  a  bit  sensitive  on  the  subject,  for  he  explains, 
"If  I  may  be  permitted  to  make  a  comparison, 
I  think  that  Zagloba  is  a  better  character  than  Fal- 
staff.  At  heart  the  old  noble  was  a  good  fellow. 
He  would  fight  bravely  when  it  became  necessary, 
whereas  Shakespeare  makes  Falstaff  a  coward  and 
a  poltroon."  ^  If  the  last  two  epithets  were  really 
an  accurate  description  of  Falstaff,  he  would  never 
have  conquered  so  many  millions  of  readers.^ 

In  power  of  description  on  a  large  scale,  Sienkiewicz 

*  See  Mr.  Van  Norman's  article. 

^  It  would  be  well  for  Sienkiewicz  (and  others)  to  read  the  brill- 
iant essay  that  appeared,  "by  another  hand,"  in  the  First  Series 
of  Mr.  Birrell's  Obiter  Dicta. 

123 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

seems  to  take  a  place  among  the  world's  great 
masters  of  fiction.  The  bigger  the  canvas,  the  more 
impressive  he  becomes.  His  pictures  of  the  bound- 
less steppes  by  day  and  night,  and  in  the  varying 
seasons  of  the  year,  leave  permanent  images  in  the 
mind.  Especially  in  huge  battle  scenes  is  his  genius 
resplendent.  It  is  as  if  we  viewed  the  whole  drama 
of  blood  from  a  convenient  mountain  peak.  The 
awful  tumult  gathers  and  breaks  like  some  hideous 
storm.  So  far  as  I  know  no  writer  has  ever  excelled 
this  Verestchagin  of  the  pen  except  Tolstoi  —  and 
Tolstoi's  power  lies  more  in  the  subjective  side  of 
the  horrors  of  war.  The  Russian's  skill  is  more 
intellectual,  more  psychological,  of  a  really  higher 
order  of  art.  For  in  the  endeavour  to  make  the 
picture  vivid,  Sienkiewicz  becomes  at  times  merely 
sensational.  There  is  no  excuse  for  his  frequent 
descent  into  loathsome  and  horrible  detail.  The 
employment  of  human  entrails  as  a  necklace  may 
be  historically  accurate,  but  it  is  out  of  place  in  a 
work  of  art.  The  minute  description  of  the  use  of 
the  stake  is  another  instance  of  the  same  tendency, 
and  the  unspeakably  horrid  torture  of  Azya  in  Pan 
Michael  is  a  sad  blot  on  an  otherwise  splendid 
romance.  The  love  of  the  physically  horrible  is 
an  unfortunate  characteristic  of  our  Polish  novelist, 
for  it  appears  in  Quo  Vadis  as  well  as  in  the  Trilogy. 
The  greatest  works  appeal  to  the  mind  rather  than 

124 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 

the  senses.  Pan  Michael  is  a  great  book,  not  be- 
cause it  reeks  with  blood  and  abounds  in  hell's 
ingenuity  of  pain,  but  because  it  presents  the  char- 
acter of  a  hero  made  perfect  through  suffering; 
every  sword-stroke  develops  his  spirit  as  well  as  his 
arm.  Superfluous  events,  so  frequent  in  the  other 
works,  are  here  omitted ;  the  story  progresses  steadily ; 
it  is  the  most  condensed  and  the  most  human  book 
in  the  Trilogy.  Again,  in  TJie  Deluge,  the  author's 
highest  skill  is  shown  not  in  the  portrayal  of  moving 
accidents  by  flood  and  field,  but  in  the  regeneration 
of  Kmita.  He  passes  through  a  long  period  of 
slow  moral  gestation,  which  ultimately  brings  him 
from  darkness  to  light. 

To  non-Slavonic  readers,  who  became  acquainted 
with  Sienkiewicz  through  the  Trilogy,  it  was  a  surprise 
to  discover  that  at  home  he  was  equally  distinguished 
as  an  exponent  of  modern  realism.  The  acute 
demand  for  anything  and  everything  from  his  pen 
led  to  the  translation  of  The  Family  of  Polanyetski, 
rechristened  in  English  (one  hardly  knows  why) 
Children  of  the  Soil;  this  was  preceded  by  the  curious 
psychological  study.  Without  Dogma.  It  is  ex- 
tremely fortunate  that  these  two  works  have  been 
made  accessible  to  English  readers,  for  they  display 
powers  that  would  not  otherwise  be  suspected.  It 
is  true  that  English  novelists  have  shone  in  both 
realism   and   romance:    we    need    remember   only 

125 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

Defoe,  Dickens,  and  Thackeray.  But  at  the  very- 
moment  when  we  were  all  thinking  of  Sienkiewicz 
as  a  reincarnation  of  Scott  or  Dumas,  we  were  com- 
pelled to  revise  previous  estimates  of  his  position 
and  abilities.  Genius  always  refuses  to  be  classified, 
ticketed,  or  inventoried;  just  as  you  have  got  your 
man  "placed,"  or,  to  change  the  figure,  have  solemnly 
and  definitely  ushered  him  to  a  seat  in  the  second 
row  on  the  upper  tier,  you  discover  that  he  is  much 
bigger  than  or  quite  different  from  your  definition 
of  him.  Sienkiewicz  is  undoubtedly  one  of  the 
greatest  living  masters  of  the  realistic  novel.  In  the 
two  stories  just  mentioned  above,  the  most  minute 
trivialities  in  human  intercourse  are  set  forth  in  a  style 
that  never  becomes  trivial.  He  is  as  good  at  ex- 
ternal description  as  he  is  at  psychological  analysis. 
He  takes  all  human  nature  for  his  province.  He 
belongs  not  only  to  the  "feel"  school  of  novelists, 
with  Zola,  but  to  the  "thought"  school,  with  Tur- 
genev.  The  workings  of  the  human  mind,  as  im- 
pelled by  all  sorts  of  motives,  ambitions,  and  passions, 
make  the  subject  for  his  examination.  In  the 
Trilogy,  he  took  an  enormous  canvas,  and  splashed 
on  myriads  of  figures;  in  Without  Dogma,  he  puts 
the  soul  of  one  man  under  the  microscope.  The 
events  in  this  man's  life  are  mainly  "transitions 
from  one  state  of  spiritual  experience  to  another." 
Naturally  the  mirror  selected  is  a  diary,  for  Without 

126 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 

Dogma  belongs  to  a  school  of  literature  illustrated 
by  such  examples  as  the  Sorrows  of  Werther  and 
AmieVs  Journal.  It  must  be  remembered  that  we 
have  here  a  study  primarily  of  the  Slav  character. 
The  hero  cleverly  diagnoses  his  own  symptoms  as 
Slave  Improductivite.  He  is  perhaps  puzzling  to 
the  practical  Philistine  Anglo-Saxon :  but  not  if  one 
has  read  Turgenev,  Dostoievsky,  or  Gorky.  Tur- 
gcnev's  brilliant  analysis  of  Rudin  must  stand  for 
all  time  as  a  perfect  portrait  of  the  educated  Slav, 
a  person  who  fulfils  the  witty  definition  of  a 
Mugwump,  "one  who  is  educated  beyond  his  ca- 
pacity." We  have  a  similar  character  here,  the  con- 
ventional conception  of  Hamlet,  a  man  whose  power 
of  reasoning  overbalances  his  strength  of  will.  He 
can  talk  brilliantly  on  all  kinds  of  intellectual  topics, 
but  he  cannot  bring  things  to  pass.  He  has  a  bad 
case  of  slave  improductivite.  The  very  title,  With- 
out Dogma,  reveals  the  lack  of  conviction  that  ulti- 
mately destroys  the  hero.  He  has  absolutely  no 
driving  power;  as  he  expresses  it,  he  does  not  know. 
If  one  wishes  to  examine  this  sort  of  mind,  extremely 
common  among  the  upper  classes  of  Poles  and 
Russians,  one  cannot  do  better  than  read  attentively 
this  book.  Every  futile  impulse,  every  vain  long- 
ing, every  idle  day-dream,  is  clearly  reflected.  It 
is  a  melancholy  spectacle,  but  fascinating  and 
highly  instructive.     For  it   is  not  merely   an  indi- 

127 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

vidual,  but  the  national  Slavonic  character  that  is 
revealed. 

Sienkiewicz  is  not  only  a  Romanticist  and  a 
Realist  —  he  is  also  a  Moralist.  The  foundations 
of  his  art  are  set  deep  in  the  bed-rock  of  moral  ideas. 
As  Tolstoi  would  say,  he  has  the  right  attitude 
toward  his  characters.  He  believes  that  the  Novel 
should  strengthen  life,  not  undermine  it;  ennoble, 
not  defile  it;  for  it  is  good  tidings,  not  evil.  "I 
care  not  whether  the  word  that  I  say  pleases  or  not, 
since  I  believe  that  I  reflect  the  great  urgent  need 
of  the  soul  of  humanity,  which  is  crying  for  a  change. 
People  must  think  according  to  the  laws  of  logic. 
And  because  they  must  also  live,  they  want  some 
consolation  on  the  road  of  life.  Masters  after  the 
manner  of  Zola  give  them  only  dissolution,  chaos, 
a  disgust  for  life,  and  despair."  ^  This  is  the  signal 
of  a  strong  and  healthy  soul.  The  fact  is,  that  at 
heart  Sienkiewicz  is  as  stout  a  moralist  as  Tolstoi, 
and  with  equal  ardour  recognises  Christianity  as 
the  world's  best  standard  and  greatest  need.  The 
basis  of  the  novel  Children  of  the  Soil  is  purely 
Christian.  The  simple-hearted  Marynia  is  married 
to  a  man  far  superior  to  her  in  mental  endowment 
and  training,  as  so  often  happens  in  Slavonic  fiction ; 
she  cannot  follow  his  intellectual  flights,  and  does 
not   even    understand    the    processes   of   his  mind. 

'  Taken  here  and  there  from  his  essay  on  Zola. 
128 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 

She  has  no  talent  for  metaphysical  discussion,  and 
no  knowledge  of  modern  science.  But  although  her 
education  does  not  compare  with  that  of  her  hus- 
band, she  has,  without  suspecting  it,  completely 
mastered  the  art  of  life;  for  she  is  a  devout  and 
sincere  Christian,  meek  and  lowly  in  heart.  He 
finally  recognises  that  while  he  has  more  learning, 
she  has  more  wisdom;  and  when  the  book  closes, 
we  see  him  a  pupil  at  her  feet.  All  his  vain  specu- 
lations are  overthrown  by  the  power  of  religion 
manifested  in  the  purity,  peace,  and  contentment 
of  his  wife's  daily  life.     And  now  he  too  — 

"Leads  it  companioned  by  the  woman  there. 
To  live,  and  see  her  learn,  and  learn  by  her, 
Out  of  the  low  obscure  and  petty  world.  .  .  . 
To  have  to  do  with  nothing  but  the  true, 
The  good,  the  eternal  —  and  these,  not  alone, 
In  the  main  current  of  the  general  life, 
But  small  experiences  of  every  day, 
Concerns  of  the  particular  hearth  and  home: 
To  learn  not  only  by  a  comet's  rush 
But  a  rose's  birth,  —  not  by  the  grandeur,  God  — 
But  the  comfort,  Christ." 

This  idea  is  revealed  positively  in  Children  of  the 
Soil,  and  negatively  in  Without  Dogma.  The  two 
women,  Marynia  and  Anicla,  are  very  similar. 
Aniela's  intellect  is  elementary  compared  with  that 
of  her  brilliant  lover,  Leon  Ploszowski.  But  her 
K  129 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

Christian  faith  turns  out  to  be  a  much  better  guide 
to  conduct  than  his  flux  of  metaphysics.  She  is  a 
good  woman,  and  knows  the  difference  between 
right  and  wrong  without  having  to  look  it  up  in 
a  book.  When  he  urges  her  to  a  liaison,  and  over- 
whelms her  objections  with  a  fine  display  of  modern 
dialectic,  she  concludes  the  debate  by  saying,  "I 
cannot  argue  W'ith  you,  because  you  are  so  much 
cleverer  than  I ;  but  I  know  that  what  you  want  me 
to  do  is  wrong,  and  I  will  not  do  it." 

We  find  exactly  the  same  emphasis  when  we  turn 
to  the  historical  romance  Quo  Vadis.  The  whole 
story  is  a  glorification  of  Christianity,  of  Christian 
ethics  and  Christian  belief.  The  despised  Christians 
have  discovered  the  secret  of  life,  which  the  culture 
of  Pctronius  sought  in  vain.  It  was  hidden  from 
the  wise  and  prudent,  and  revealed  unto  babes. 
The  influence  of  Lygia  on  Vinicius  is,  with  a  totally 
different  environment,  precisely  the  same  as  the 
influence  of  Marynia  on  Pan  Stanislav. 

Sienkiewicz  seems  to  have  much  the  same  Chris- 
tian conception  of  Love  as  that  shown  in  so  many 
ways  by  Browning.  Love  is  the  siimmmn  honum, 
and  every  manifestation  of  it  has  something  divine. 
Love  in  all  its  forms  appears  in  these  Polish  novels, 
as  it  does  in  Browning,  from  the  basest  sensual 
desire  to  the  purest  self-sacrifice.  There  is  indeed 
a  streak  of  animalism  in  Sienkiewicz,  which  shows 

130 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 

in  all  his  works;  but,  if  wc  may  believe  him,  it  is 
merely  one  representation  of  the  great  passion, 
which  so  largely  controls  life  and  conduct.  Love, 
says  Sienkiewicz,  with  perhaps  more  force  than 
clearness,  should  be  the  foundation  of  all  literature. 
"L'amour  —  c'est  un  droit  eternel,  une  force  vitale, 
c'est  le  genie  —  bienfaitcur  de  notre  globe :  I'har- 
monie.  Sienkiewicz  croit  que  I'amour,  ainsi  com- 
pris,  est  le  fondement  de  la  litt^rature  polonaise  — 
et  que  cet  amour  devrait  I'etre  pour  toute  la  litt^ra- 
turc."  '  Some  light  may  be  thrown  on  this  state- 
ment by  a  careful  reading  of  Pan  Michael. 

Sienkiewicz  is  indeed  a  mighty  man  —  someone 
has  ironically  called  him  a  literary  blacksmith. 
There  is  nothing  decadent  in  his  nature.  Compared 
with  many  English,  German,  and  French  writers, 
who  seem  at  times  to  express  an  anaemic  and  played- 
out  civilisation,  he  has  the  very  exuberance  of  power 
and  an  endless  wealth  of  material.  It  is  as  if  the 
world  were  fresh  and  new.  And  he  has  not  only 
delighted  us  with  the  pageantry  of  chivalry,  and  with 
the  depiction  of  our  complex  modern  civilisation, 
he  has  for  us  also  the  stimulating  influence  of  a 
great  moral  force. 

*  Sent  to  me  by  Dr.  Glabisz. 


131 


vn 

HERMANN  SUDERMANN 

Walking  along  Michigan  Avenue  in  Chicago  one 
fine  day,  I  stopped  in  front  of  the  recently  completed 
hall  devoted  to  music.  On  the  facade  of  this  build- 
ing had  been  placed  five  names,  supposed  to  repre- 
sent the  five  greatest  composers  that  the  world 
has  thus  far  seen.  It  was  worth  while  to  pause  a 
moment  and  to  reflect  that  those  five  men  were 
all  Germans.  Germany's  contribution  to  music 
is  not  only  greater  than  that  of  any  other  nation, 
it  is  probably  greater  than  that  of  all  the  other  coun- 
tries of  the  earth  put  together,  and  multiplied  several 
times.  In  many  forms  of  literary  art,  —  especially 
perhaps  in  drama  and  in  lyrical  poetry,  —  Germany 
has  been  eminent ;  and  she  has  produced  the  great- 
est literary  genius  since  Shakespeare.  To-day  the 
Fatherland  remains  the  intellectual  workshop  of 
the  world;  men  and  women  flock  thither  to  study 
subjects  as  varied  as  Theology,  Chemistry,  Mathe- 
matics, and  Music.  All  this  splendid  achievement 
in  science  and  in  culture  makes  poverty  in  the  field 
of  prose  fiction  all  the  more  remarkable.  For  the 
132 


HERMANN   SUDERMANN 

fact  is,  that  the  total  number  of  truly  great  world- 
novels  written  in  the  German  language,  throughout 
its  entire  history,  can  be  counted  on  the  fingers  of 
one  hand. 

In  the  making  of  fiction,  from  the  point  of  view 
solely  of  quality,  Germany  cannot  stand  an  instant's 
comparison  with  Russia,  whose  four  great  novelists 
have  immensely  enriched  the  world;  nor  with  Great 
Britain,  where  masterpieces  have  been  produced 
for  nearly  two  hundred  years;  nor  with  France, 
where  the  names  of  notable  novels  crowd  into  the 
memory;  and  even  America,  so  poor  in  literature 
and  in  genuine  culture,  can  show  at  least  one  ro- 
mance that  stands  higher  than  anything  which  has 
come  from  beyond  the  Rhine.  Germany  has  no 
reason  to  feel  ashamed  of  her  barrenness  in  fiction, 
so  pre-eminent  is  she  in  many  other  and  perhaps 
nobler  forms  of  art.  But  it  is  interesting  to  enquire 
for  a  moment  into  possible  causes  of  this  phenomenon, 
and  to  see  if  we  can  discover  why  Teutonic  fiction 
is,  relatively  speaking,  so  bad. 

One  dominant  fault  in  most  German  novels  is  a 
lack  of  true  proportion.  The  principle  of  selection, 
which  differentiates  a  painting  from  a  photograph, 
and  makes  the  artist  an  Interpreter  instead  of  a 
Recorder,  has  been  forgotten  or  overlooked.  The 
high  and  holy  virtue  of  Omission  should  be  culti- 
vated more  sedulously.    The  art  of  leaving  out  is 

^33 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

the  art  that  produces  the  real  illusion  —  where,  by 
the  omission  of  unessential  details,  things  that  are 
salient  can  be  properly  emphasised.  And  what 
German  novels  lack  is  emphasis.  This  cannot 
be  obtained  by  merely  spacing  the  letters  in  de- 
scriptions and  in  conversations;  it  can  be  reached 
only  by  remembering  that  prose  fiction  is  as  truly 
an  art  form  as  a  Sonata.  Instead  of  novels,  the  weary 
reader  gets  long  and  tiresome  biographies  of  rather 
unimportant  persons;  people  whom  we  should 
not  in  the  least  care  to  know  in  real  life.  We  follow 
them  dejectedly  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave.  Mat- 
ters of  no  earthly  consequence  either  to  the  reader, 
to  the  hero,  or  to  the  course  of  the  plot,  are  given 
as  much  prominence  as  great  events.  In  Jorn  Uhl, 
to  take  a  recent  illustration,  the  novel  is  positively 
choked  by  trivial  detail.  Despite  the  enormous 
vogue  of  this  story,  it  does  not  seem  destined  to  live. 
It  will  fall  by  its  own  weight. 

Another  great  fault  is  an  excess  of  sentimentality. 
For  the  Germans,  who  delight  in  destroying  old 
faiths  of  humanity,  and  who  remorselessly  hammer 
away  at  the  shrines  where  we  worship  in  history 
and  religion,  arc,  notwithstanding  their  iconoclasm, 
the  most  sentimental  people  in  the  world.  Many 
second-  and  tliird-rate  German  novels  arc  ruined 
for  an  Anglo-Saxon  reader  by  a  lush  streak  of  senti- 
mental gush,   a  curious  blemish   in  so  intellectual 

'34 


HERMANN   SUDERMANN 

and  sceptical  a  race.  This  excess  of  soft  material 
appears  in  a  variety  of  forms;  but  to  take  one  com- 
mon manifestation  of  it,  I  should  say  that  the  one 
single  object  that  has  done  more  than  anything  else 
to  weaken  and  to  destroy  German  fiction,  is  the 
Moon.  The  Germans  are,  by  nature  and  by  train- 
ing, scientific ;  and  what  their  novels  need  is  not  the 
examination  of  literary  critics,  but  the  thoughtful 
attention  of  astronomers.  The  Moon  is  overworked, 
and  needs  a  long  rest.  An  immense  number  of 
pages  are  illumined  by  its  chaste  beams,  for  this 
satellite  is  both  active  and  ubiquitous.  It  behaves, 
it  must  be  confessed,  in  a  dramatic  manner,  but  in 
a  way  hopelessly  at  variance  with  its  methodical 
and  orderly  self.  In  other  words,  the  Moon,  in 
German  fiction,  is  not  astronomical,  but  decorative. 
I  have  read  some  stories  where  it  seems  to  rise  on 
almost  every  page,  and  is  invariably  full.  When 
Stevenson  came  to  grief  on  the  Moon  in  Prince 
Otto,  he  declared  that  the  next  time  he  wrote  a  novel, 
he  should  use  an  almanac.  He  unwittingly  laid 
his  finger  on  a  weak  spot  in  German  fiction.  The 
almanac  is,  after  all,  what  is  most  sorely  needed. 
Even  Herr  Sudermann,  for  whom  we  entertain  the 
highest  respect,  places  in  Es  War  a  young  crescent 
Moon  in  the  eastern  sky !  But  it  is  in  his  story, 
Der  Katzensteg,  that  the  lunar  orb  plays  its  heaviest 
r61e.     It  rises  so  constantly  that  after  a  time  the 

135 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

very  words  " der  Mond''  get  on  one's  nerves.  At  the 
climax,  when  the  lover  looks  down  on  the  stream, 
he  there  beholds  the  dead  body  of  his  sweetheart. 
By  some  scientific  process,  "unknown  to  me  and 
which  'twere  well  to  know,"  she  is  floating  on  her 
back  in  the  water,  while  the  Moon  illumines  her  face, 
leaving  the  rest  of  her  remains  in  darkness.  This 
constitutes  a  striking  picture ;  and  is  also  of  material 
assistance  to  the  man  in  locating  the  whereabouts 
of  the  girl.  He  descends,  rescues  her  from  the 
flood,  and  digs  a  grave  in  which  to  bury  her.  The 
Moon  actively  and  dramatically  takes  part  in  this 
labour.  Finally,  he  has  lowered  the  corpse  into 
the  bottom  of  the  cavity.  The  Moon  now  shines 
into  the  grave  in  such  a  manner  that  the  dead 
woman's  face  is  bright  with  its  rays,  whereas  the 
rest  of  her  body  and  the  walls  of  the  tomb  are  in 
obscurity.  This  phenomenon  naturally  makes  a 
powerful  impression  on  the  mourner's  mind. 

If  such  things  can  happen  in  the  works  of  a  writer 
like  Sudermann,  one  can  easily  imagine  the  reckless 
behaviour  of  the  Moon  in  the  common  run  of  German 
fiction.  The  Moon,  in  fact,  is  in  German  novels 
what  the  calcium  light  is  in  American  melodrama. 
If  one  "assists  "  at  a  performance  of,  let  us  say.  No 
Wedding  Bells  for  Her,  and  can  take  his  eye  a 
moment  from  the  stage,  he  may  observe  up  in  the 
back  gallery  a  person  working  the  calcium  light, 

136 


HERMANN    SUDERMANN 

and  directing  its  powerful  beams  in  such  a  fashion 
that  no  matter  where  the  heroine  moves,  they  dwell 
exclusively  on  her  face,  so  that  we  may  contemplate 
her  features  convulsed  with  emotion.  Now  in  Der 
Katzensteg,  the  patient  Moon  follows  the  heroine 
about  with  much  the  same  assiduity,  and  accuracy 
of  aim.  Possibly  Hcrr  Sudcrmann,  since  the  com- 
position of  that  work,  has  really  consulted  an 
almanac;  for  in  Das  hohe  Lied,  the  Moon  is  practi- 
cally ignored,  and  never  gets  a  fair  start.  Tow- 
ard the  end,  I  felt  sure  that  it  would  appear,  and 
finally,  when  I  came  to  the  words,  "The  weary  disk 
of  the  full  moon  (matte  Vollmondscheibe)  hung 
somewhere  in  the  dark  sky,"  I  exclaimed,  "Art 
thou  there,  truepenny  ? "  —  but  the  next  sentence 
showed  that  the  author  was  playing  fast  and  loose 
with  his  old  friend.  "It  was  the  illuminated 
clock  of  a  railway-station."  Can  Sudermann  have 
purposely  set  a  trap  forhis  moon-struck  constit- 
uency? 

From  the  astronomical  point  of  view,  I  have  seldom 
read  a  novel  that  contained  so  much  moonlight  as 
Der  Katzensteg,  and  I  have  never  read  one  that 
contained  so  little  as  Das  hohe  Lied.  Perhaps 
Sudermann  is  now  quietly  protesting  against  what 
he  himself  may  regard  as  a  national  calamity,  for 
it  is  little  less  than  that.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  lack 
of  proportion  and  the  excess  of  sentimentality  are 

137 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

two  great  evils  that  have  militated  against   the  final 
success  of  German  fiction. 

Hermann  Sudermann  was  born  at  a  little  village 
in  East  Prussia,  near  the  Russian  frontier.  The 
natal  landscape  is  dull,  depressing,  gloomy,  and  the 
skies  are  low  and  threatening.  The  clouds  return 
after  the  rain.  Dame  Care  has  spread  her  grey 
wings  over  the  flat  earth,  and  neither  the  scenery 
nor  the  quality  of  the  air  are  such  as  to  inspire  hope 
and  vigour.  The  boy's  parents  were  desperately 
poor,  and  the  bitter  struggles  with  poverty  so  fre- 
quently described  in  his  novels  are  reminiscent  of 
early  experiences.  In  the  beautiful  and  affectionate 
verses,  which  constitute  the  dedication  to  his  father 
and  mother,  and  which  are  placed  at  the  beginning 
of  Frail  Sorge,  these  privations  of  the  Sudermann 
household  are  dwelt  on  with  loving  tenderness. 
At  the  age  of  fourteen,  the  child  was  forced  to  leave 
school,  and  was  apprenticed  to  a  chemist  —  some- 
thing that  recalls  chapters  in  the  lives  of  Keats  and 
of  Ibsen.  But,  like  most  boys  who  really  long  for 
a  good  education,  Sudermann  obtained  it;  he 
continued  his  studies  in  private,  and  later  returned 
to  school  at  Tilsit.  In  1875  he  attended  the  Univer- 
sity at  Konigsberg,  and  in  1877  migrated  to  the 
University  of  Berlin,  His  first  impulse  was  to  be- 
come a  tcaclicr,  and  he  s[)ent  several  years  in  a  wide 
range  of  studies  in  philosophy  and  literature.     Then 


HERMANN   SUDERMANN 

he  turned  to  journalism,  and  edited  a  political 
weekly.  He  finally  forsook  journalism  for  literature, 
and  for  the  last  twenty  years  he  has  been  known  in 
every  part  of  the  intellectual  world. 

Like  Mr.  J.  M.  Barric,  Signor  D'Annunzio,  and 
other  contemporaries,  Sudermann  has  achieved  high 
distinction  both  as  a  novelist  and  as  a  dramatist. 
Indeed,  one  of  the  signs  of  the  times  is  the  recruiting 
of  playwrights  from  the  ranks  of  trained  experts 
in  prose  fiction.  It  may  perhaps  be  regarded  as 
one  more  evidence  of  the  approaching  supremacy 
of  the  Drama,  which  many  literary  prophets  have 
foretold.  After  he  had  published  a  small  collection 
of  "Zwanglose  Geschichten,"  called  Im  Zwielicht, 
Sudermann  issued  his  first  real  novel,  Dame  Care 
(Frau  Sorge).  This  was  followed  by  two  tales 
bound  together  under  the  heading  Geschwister,  one 
of  them  being  the  morbidly  powerful  story,  The  Wish 
(Der  Wmtsch).  Soon  after  came  Der  Katzensteg, 
translated  into  English  with  the  title,  Regina.  Then, 
after  a  surprisingly  short  interval,  came  his  first  play. 
Die  Ehre  (1889),  which  appeared  in  the  same  year 
as  his  rival  Hauptmann's  first  drama,  Vor  Son- 
nenaufgang.  Die  Ehre  created  a  tremendous  sen- 
sation, and  Sudermann  was  excitedly  read  and 
discussed  far  beyond  the  limits  of  his  native  land. 
He  reached  a  wild  climax  of  popularity  a  few  years 
later  with  his  play  Heimal  (English  version  Magda), 

139 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

which  has  been  presented  by  the  greatest  actresses 
in  the  world,  and  is  familiar  to  everybody.  With 
the  exception  of  the  long  novel,  Es  War  (English 
translation,  The  Undying  Past),  which  appeared 
in  1894,  Sudermann  devoted  himself  exclusively 
to  the  stage  for  almost  twenty  years,  and  most  of 
us  believed  he  had  definitely  abandoned  novel- 
writing.  From  1889  to  1909,  he  produced  nineteen 
plays,  nearly  every  one  of  them  successful.  Then 
last  year  he  astonished  everybody  by  publishing 
a  novel  of  over  six  hundred  closely  printed  pages, 
called  Das  hohe  Lied,  translated  into  English  as 
The  Song  of  Songs.  This  has  had  an  enormous 
success,  and  for  1908- 1909,  is  the  best  selling  work 
of  fiction  in  the  large  cities  of  Germany. 

The  immense  vogue  of  his  early  plays  had  much 
to  do  with  the  wide  circulation  of  his  previously 
published  novels.  Despite  the  now  universally 
acknowledged  excellence  of  Frau  Sorge,  it  attracted, 
at  the  time  of  its  appearance,  very  little  atten- 
tion. It  is  going  beyond  the  facts  to  say  with 
one  German  critic  that  "it  dropped  stillborn  from 
the  press";  but  it  did  not  give  the  author  anything 
like  the  fame  he  deserved.  After  the  first  night  of 
Die  Ehre,  the  public  became  inquisitive.  A  search 
was  made  for  everything  the  new  author  had  written, 
and  the  two  novels  Frau  Sorge,  and  the  very  recent 
Katzensteg,  were  fairly  pounced  upon.     The  small 

140 


HERMANN   SUDERMANN 

stock  on  hand  was  immediately  exhausted,  and  the 
presses  poured  forth  edition  after  edition.  At  first 
Der  Katzensteg  received  the  louder  tribute  of  praise; 
it  was  hailed  by  many  otherwise  sane  critics  as  the 
greatest  work  of  fiction  that  Germany  had  ever 
produced.  But  after  the  tumult  and  the  shouting 
died,  the  people  recognised  the  superiority  of  the 
former  novel.  To-day  Der  Katzensteg  is,  compara- 
tively speaking,  little  read,  and  one  seldom  hears 
it  mentioned.  Frau  Sorge,  on  the  other  hand,  has 
not  only  attained  more  editions  than  any  other  work, 
either  play  or  novel,  by  its  author,  but  it  bears  the 
signs  that  mark  a  classic.  It  is  one  of  the  very  few 
truly  great  German  novels,  and  it  is  possible  that 
this  early  written  story  will  survive  everything  that 
Sudermann  has  since  produced,  which  is  saying  a 
good  deal.     It  looks  like  a  fixed  star. 

Sudermann's  four  novels,  Frau  Sorge,  Der  Kat- 
zensteg, Es  War,  and  Das  hohe  Lied,  show  a  steady 
progression  in  Space  as  well  as  in  Time.  The  first 
is  the  shortest;  the  second  is  larger;  the  third  is 
a  long  book;  the  fourth  is  a  leviathan.  If  novelists 
were  heard  for  their  much  speaking,  the  order  of 
merit  in  this  output  would  need  no  comment.  But 
the  first  of  these  is  almost  as  superior  in  quality  as 
it  is  inferior  in  size.  When  the  author  prepared 
it  for  the  press,  he  was  an  absolutely  unknown 
man.     Possibly  he  put  more  work  on  it  than  went 

141 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

into  the  other  books,  for  it  apparently  bears  the 
marks  of  careful  revision.  It  is  a  great  exception  to 
the  ordinary  run  of  German  novels  in  its  complete 
freedom  from  superfluous  and  clogging  detail. 
Turgenev  used  to  write  his  stories  originally  at  great 
length,  and  then  reduce  them  to  a  small  fraction 
of  their  original  bulk,  before  offering  them  to  the 
public.  We  thus  receive  the  quintessence  of  his 
thought  and  of  his  art.  Now  Frau  Sorge  has  ap- 
parently been  subjected  to  some  such  process.  Much 
of  the  huge  and  varied  cargo  of  ideas,  reflections, 
comments,  and  speculations  carried  by  the  regula- 
tion German  freight-novel  of  heavy  draught,  has 
here  been  jettisoned.  Then  the  craft  itself  has  been 
completely  remodelled,  and  the  final  result  is  a  thing 
of  grace  and  beauty. 

Frau  Sorge  is  an  admirable  story  in  its  absolute 
unity,  in  its  harmonious  development,  and  in  its 
natural  conclusion.  I  do  not  know  of  any  other 
German  novel  that  has  a  more  attractive  outline. X/ 
It  ought  to  serve  as  an  example  to  its  author's  country- 
men. 

It  is  in  a  way  an  anatomy  of  melancholy.  It  is 
written  throughout  in  the  minor  key,  and  the  at- 
mosphere of  melancholy  envelops  it  with  as  much 
natural  charm  as  though  it  were  a  beautiful  piece 
of  music.  The  book  is  profoundly  sad,  without  any 
false  sentiment   and  without  any  revolting  coarse- 

142 


HERMANN   SUDERMANN 

ness.  It  is  as  far  removed  from  the  silly  senti- 
mentality so  common  in  Teutonic  fiction,  as  it  is 
from  the  filth  of  Zola  or  of  Gorky.  The  deep  mel- 
ancholy of  the  story  is  as  natural  to  it  as  a  cloudy 
sky.  The  characters  live  and  move  and  have  their 
being  in  this  grey  medium,  which  fits  them  like  a 
garment ;  just  as  in  the  early  tales  of  B jornson  we 
feel  the  strong  sunshine  and  the  sharp  air.  The  early 
environment  of  the  young  author,  the  depressing 
landscape  of  his  boyhood  days,  the  daily  fight  with 
grim  want  in  his  father's  house  —  all  these  elements 
are  faithfully  reflected  here,  and  lend  their  colour 
to  the  narrative.  And  this  surrounding  melancholy, 
though  it  overshadows  the  whole  book,  is  made  to 
serve  an  artistic  purpose.  It  contrasts  favourably 
with  Ibsen's  harsh  bitterness,  with  Gorky's  maudlin 
dreariness,  and  with  the  hysterical  outbursts  of  pes- 
simism from  the  manikins  who  try  to  see  life  from 
the  mighty  shoulders  of  Schopenhauer.  At  the  very 
heart  of  the  work  we  find  no  sentiment  of  revolt 
against  life,  and  no  cry  of  despair,  but  true  tender- 
ness and  broad  sympathy.  It  is  the  clear  expression 
of  a  rich,  warm  nature.  j 

The  story  is  realistic,  with  a  veil  of  Romanticism. 
The  various  scenes  of  the  tale  seem  almost  photo- 
graphically real.v  The  daily  life  on  the  farm,  the 
struggles  with  the  agricultural  machine,  the  peat- 
bogs, the  childish  experiences  at  school,  the  brutality 

143 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

of  the  boys,  the  graphic  picture  of  the  funeral,  —  these 
would  not  be  out  of  place  in  a  genuine  experimental 
novel>''  But  we  see  everything  through  an  imagina- 
tive medium,  like  the  impalpable  silver-grey  mist  on 
the  paintings  of  Andrea  del  Sarto.  The  way  in 
which  the  difficult  conception  of  Frau  Sorge  —  part 
woman,  part  vague  abstraction  —  is  managed, 
reminds  one  in  its  shadowy  nature  of  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne.,  This  might  have  been  done  clumsily, 
as  in  a  crude  fairy-tale,  but  it  exhibits  the  most 
subtle  art.  The  first  description  of  Frau  Sorge  by 
the  mother,  the  boy's  first  glimpse  of  the  super- 
natural woman,  his  father's  overcoat,  the  Magdalene 
in  church,  the  flutter  of  Frau  Sorge's  wings,  —  all 
this  gives  us  a  realistic  story,  and  yet  takes  us  into 
the  borderland  between  the  actual  and  the  unknown. 
From  one  point  of  view  we  have  a  plain  narrative 
of  fact;  from  another  an  imaginative  poem,  and  at 
the  end  we  feel  that  both  have  been  marvellously 
blended. 

*■■  The  simplicity  of  the  style  gives  the  novel  a  high 
rank  in  German  prose.  It  has  that  naive  quality 
wherein  the  Germans  so  greatly  excel  writers  in 
other  languages.  I  It  is  a  surprising  fact  that  this 
tongue,  so  full  of  difficulties  for  foreigners,  and 
which  seems  often  so  confused  and  involved,  can, 
in  the  hands  of  a  master,  be  made  to  speak  like  a 
little   chil(l.     The   literary   style   of  Frau  Sorge   is 

144 


HERMANN   SUDERMANN 

naive  without  ever  being  trivial  or  absurd.  It  is 
pleasant  to  observe,  by  the  way,  that  to  some  extent 
this  book  is  filling  the  place  in  American  educational 
programmes  of  German  that  UAbhc  Constantin 
has  for  so  long  a  time  occupied  in  early  studies  of 
French.  Both  novels  are  masterpieces  of  simplicity. 
But  what  we  remember  the  most  vividly,  years 
after  we  have  finished  this  story,  is  not  its  scenic 
background,  nor  its  unearthly  charm,  nor  the  grace 
of  its  style;  it  is  the  character  and  temperament  of 
the  boy-hero.  It  is  the  first,  and  possibly  the  best, 
of  Sudermann's  remarkable  psychological  studies^ 
The  whole  interest  is  centred  in  young  Paul.  He  is 
not  exactly  the  normal  type  of  growing  boy,  —  com- 
pare him  with  Tom  Sawyer !  —  but  because  he  is  not 
ordinary,  it  does  not  follow  that  he  is  unnatural. 
To  many  thoroughly  respectable  Philistine  readers, 
he  may  appear  not  only  abnormal,  but  impossible; 
but  the  book  was  not  intended  for  Philistines.  I 
believe  that  this  boy  is  absolutely  true  to  b'fe,  though 
I  do  not  recall  at  this  moment  any  other  novel  where 
this  particular  kind  of  youth  occupies  the  centre  of 
the  stage. 

\l  For  Frau  Sorge  is  a  careful  study  and  analysis 
of  bashfulness,  a  characteristic  that  causes  more 
exquisite  torture  to  many  boys  and  girls  than  is 
commonly  recognised.  .  Many  of  us,  when  we  laugh 
at  a  boy's  bashfulness,  are  brutal,  when  we  mean  to 
L,  145 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

be  merely  jocular.  Paul  is  intensely  self-conscious. 
He  is  not  at  all  like  a  healthy,  practical,  objective 
child,  brought  up  in  a  large  family,  and  surrounded 
by  the  noisy  progeny  of  neighbours.  His  life  is 
perforcedly  largely  subjective.  He  would  give  any- 
thing could  he  associate  with  schoolmates  with  the 
ease  that  makes  a  popular  boy  sure  of  his  welcome. 
His  accursed  timidity  makes  him  invariably  show 
his  most  awkward  and  unattractive  side.  He  is  not 
in  the  least  a  Weltkind.  He  has  none  of  the  coarse- 
ness and  none  of  the  clever  shirking  of  work  and 
study  so  characteristic  of  the  perfectly  normal  small 
boy.  He  does  his  duty  without  any  reservations, 
and  without  understanding  why.  The  narrative  of 
his  mental  life  is  deeply  pathetic.  It  is  impossible 
to  read  the  book  without  a  lump  in  the  throat. 

Paul  is  finally  saved  from  himself  by  the  redeem- 
ing power  of  love.  The  little  heroine  Elsbeth  is 
shadowy,  —  a  merely  conventional  picture  of  hair, 
complexion,  and  eyes,  —  but  she  is,  after  all,  das 
Ewigweibliche,  and  draws  Paul  upward  and  onward* 
She  rescues  him  from  the  Slough  of  Despond.  There 
is  no  touch  of  cynicism  here.  Sudermann  shows  us 
the  healing  power  of  a  good  woman's  heart. 

The  next  novel,  Dcr  Katzensteg,  is  more  pretentious 
than  Frau  Sorge,  but  not  nearly  so  fine  a  book.  It 
abounds  in  dramatic  scenes,  and  glows  with  fierce 
passion.     It  seems  more  like  a  melodrama  than  a 

146 


HERAIANN   SUDERxMANN 

story,  and  it  is  not  surprising  that  its  author  im- 
mefliately  discovered  —  perhaps  in  the  very  com- 
position of  this  romance  —  his  genius  for  the  stage. 
It  is  a  historical  novel,  but  the  chief  interest,  as  always 
in  Sudermann,  is  psychological.  The  element  of 
Contrast  —  so  essential  to  true  drama,  and  which 
is  so  strikingly  employed  in  Die  Ehre,  Sodoms  Ende, 
Heimat,  and  Johannes  —  is  the  mainspring  of  Der 
Kaizensteg.  We  have  here  the  irrepressible  con- 
flict between  the  artificial  and  the  natural.  The 
heroine  of  the  story  is  a  veritable  child  of  nature, 
with  absolutely  elemental  passions,  as  completely 
removed  from  civilisation  as  a  wild  beast.  She  was 
formerly  the  mistress  of  the  hero's  father,  and  for 
a  long  time  is  naturally  regarded  with  loathing  by 
the  son.  But  she  transfers  her  dog-like  fidelity  from 
the  dead  parent  to  the  morbid  scion  of  the  house. 
The  more  cruelly  the  young  man  treats  her,  the 
deeper  becomes  her  love  for  him.  Nor  does  he  at 
first  suspect  the  hold  she  has  on  his  heart.  He 
imagines  himself  to  be  in  love  with  the  pastor's 
daughter  in  the  village,  who  has  been  brought  up 
like  a  hothouse  plant.  This  simpering,  affected 
girl,  who  has  had  all  the  advantages  of  careful 
nurture  and  education,  is  throughout  the  story  con- 
trasted with  the  wild  flower,  Regina.  The  con- 
trast is  thorough  —  mental,  moral,  physical.  The 
educated  girl  has  no  real  mind;    she  has  only  ac- 

147 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

complishments.  Her  morality  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  heart;  it  is  a  bundle  of  conventions.  And 
finally,  while  Regina  has  a  magnificent,  voluptuous 
physique,  the  hero  discovers  —  by  the  light  of  the 
moon  —  that  the  lady  of  his  dreams  is  too  thin ! 
This  is  unendurable.  He  rushes  away  from  the 
town  to  the  heights  w^here  stands  his  lonely  dwelling, 
cursing  himself  for  his  folly  in  being  so  long  blind 
to  the  wonderful  charm  and  devotion  of  the  passion- 
ate girl  who,  he  feels  sure,  is  waiting  for  him.  He 
hastens  on  the  very  wings  of  love,  W'ild  with  his 
new-found  happiness.  But  the  very  fidelity  of  the 
child  of  nature  has  caused  her  death.  She  stood 
out  on  the  bridge  —  der  Katzensteg  —  to  warn  her 
lover  of  his  danger.  There  she  is  shot  by  her  drunken 
father,  and  the  impatient  lover  sees  her  dead  body 
in  the  stream  below. 

Now  he  has  leisure  to  reflect  on  what  a  fool  he 
has  been.  He  sees  how  much  nobler  are  natural 
passions  than  artificial  conventions.  Regina  had 
lived  "on  the  other  side  of  good  and  evil,"  knowing 
and  caring  nothing  for  the  standards  of  society. 
The  entire  significance  of  the  novel  is  summed  up 
in   this  paragraph  :  — 

"And  as  he  thoup;ht  and  pondered,  it  seemed  to  him  as 
if  the  clouds  which  separate  the  foundations  of  human  being 
from  human  consciousness"  (that  is,  things  as  they  are  from 
our  conceptions  of  them,  —  den  Boden  des  menschlichen  Scins 

148 


HERMANN    SUDERMANN 

vom  menschlichcn  Bewusstsein)  "were  dispersed,  and  he 
saw  a  space  deeper  than  men  commonly  see,  into  the  depths 
of  the  unconscious.  That  which  men  call  Good  and  Bad, 
moved  restless  in  the  clouds  around  the  surface;  below,  in 
dreaming  strength,  lay  the  Natural  {das  Naliirliche).  'Whom 
Nature  has  blessed,'  he  said  to  himself,  'him  she  lets  safely 
grow  in  her  dark  depths  and  allows  him  to  struggle  boldly 
toward  the  light,  without  the  clouds  of  Wisdom  and  Error 
surrounding  and  bewildering  him.'" 

But  there  is  nothing  new  or  original  in  this  doctrine, 
however  daring  it  may  be.  One  can  find  it  all  in 
Nietzsche  and  in  Rousseau.  The  best  thing  about 
the  novel  is  that  it  once  more  illustrates  Sudermann's 
sympathy  for  the  outcast  and  the  despised. 

An  extraordinarily  powerful  study  in  morbid 
psychology  is  shown  in  one  of  his  short  stories, 
called  Der  Wunsch.  The  tale  is  told  backward. 
It  begins  with  the  discovery  of  a  horrible  suicide, 
the  explanation  of  which  is  furnished  to  the 
prostrated  lover  by  the  dead  woman's  manuscript. 
A  man  and  his  wife,  at  first  happily  married, 
encounter  the  dreadful  obstacles  of  poverty  and 
disease;  the  fatal  illness  of  his  wife  plunges  the 
husband  into  a  hard,  bitter  melancholy.  From  this 
he  is  partially  saved  by  the  appearance  of  his  wife's 
younger  sister  on  the  scene,  who  comes  to  take  care 
of  the  sick  woman.  The  close  companionship  of 
the  two,  previously  fond  of  each  other,  and  now 
united  daily  by  their  care  of  the  invalid,  results  in 

I4Q 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

love;  but  both  are  absolutely  loyal  to  the  suffering 
wife.  They  cannot  help  thinking,  however,  of  the 
wonderful  happiness  that  might  be  theirs,  were  the 
man  free;  nevertheless,  they  do  everything  possible 
to  solace  the  last  hours  of  the  woman  for  whom  they 
feel  an  immense  compassion.  One  night,  as  the 
sister  watches  at  the  bedside,  and  gazes  on  the  face 
of  her  sister,  she  suddenly  feels  the  uncontrollable 
and  fatal  wish  —  "Would  that  she  might  die!" 
She  is  so  smitten  with  remorse  that  after  the  death 
of  the  invalid  she  commits  suicide.  For  although 
her  wish  had  nothing  to  do  with  this  event,  she 
nevertheless  regards  herself  as  a  murderer,  and  goes 
to  self-execution.  The  physician  remarks  that  this 
psychological  wish  is  not  uncommon;  that  during 
his  professional  services  he  has  often  seen  it  legibly 
written  on  the  faces  of  relatives  by  the  bedside  — 
sometimes  actuated  by  avarice,  sometimes  by  other 
forms  of  personal  greed. 

The  next  regular  novel,  Es  War,  is  the  study  of  a 
past  sin  on  a  man's  character,  temperament,  and 
conduct.  The  hero,  Leo,  has  committed  adultery 
with  the  wife  of  a  disagreeable  husband,  and,  being 
challenged  by  the  latter  to  a  duel,  has  killed  him. 
Thus  having  broken  two  of  the  commandments,  he 
departs  for  South  America,  where  for  four  years 
he  li\c's  a  joyous,  care-free,  savage  existence,  with 
murder  and  sensuality  a  regular  i)art  of  the  day's 

150 


HERMANN   SUDERAIANN 

work.  It  is  perhaps  a  little  hard  on  South  America 
that  Leo  could  live  there  in  such  liberty  and  return 
to  Germany  unscathed  by  the  arm  of  the  law;  but 
this  is  essential  to  the  story.  He  returns  a  kind  of 
Superman,  rejoicing  in  his  magnificent  health  and 
absolutely  determined  to  repent  nothing.  He  will 
not  allow  the  past  to  obscure  his  happiness.  But 
unfortunately  his  friend  Ulrich,  whom  he  has  loved 
since  childhood  with  an  affection  passing  the  love  of 
women,  has  married  the  guilty  widow,  in  blissful 
unconsciousness  of  his  friend's  guilt.  And  here  the 
story  opens.  It  is  a  long,  depressing,  but  intensely 
interesting  tale.  At  the  very  close,  when  it  seems 
that  wholesale  tragedy  is  inevitable,  the  clouds  lift, 
and  Leo,  who  has  found  the  Past  stronger  than  he, 
regains  something  of  the  cheerfulness  that  char- 
acterises his  first  appearance  in  the  narrative. 
Nevertheless  es  war;  the  Past  cannot  be  lightly 
tossed  aside  or  forgotten.  It  comes  near  wrecking 
the  lives  of  every  important  character  in  the  novel. 
Yet  the  idea  at  the  end  seems  to  be  that  although 
sin  entails  fearful  punishment,  and  the  scars  can 
never  be  obliterated,  it  is  possible  to  triumph  over  it 
and  find  happiness  once  more.  The  most  beautiful 
and  impressive  thing  in  Es  War  is  the  friendship 
between  the  two  men  —  so  different  in  temperament 
and  so  passionately  devoted  to  each  other.  A  large 
group  of  characters  is  splendidly  kept  in  hand,  and 

151 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

each  is  individual  and  clearly  drawn.  One  can  never 
forget  the  gluttonous,  wine-bibbing  Parson,  who 
comes  eating  and  drinking,  but  who  is  a  terror  to 
publicans  and  sinners. 

Last  year  appeared  Das  hohe  Lied,  which,  al- 
though it  lacks  the  morbid  horror  of  much  of  Suder- 
mann's  work,  is  the  most  pessimistic  book  he  has 
ever  written.  The  irony  of  the  title  is  the  motive 
of  the  whole  novel.  Between  the  covers  of  this 
thick  volume  we  find  the  entire  detailed  life-history 
of  a  woman.  She  passes  through  much  debauchery, 
and  we  follow  her  into  many  places  where  we  should 
hesitate  to  penetrate  in  real  life.  But  the  steps  in 
her  degradation  are  not  put  in,  as  they  so  often  are 
in  Guy  de  Maupassant,  merely  to  lend  spice  to  the 
narrative;  every  event  has  a  definite  influence  on 
the  heroine's  character.  The  story,  although  very 
long,  is  strikingly  similar  to  that  in  a  recent  suc- 
cessful American  play.  The  Easiest  Way.  Lilly 
Czepanek  is  not  naturally  base  or  depraved.  The 
manuscript  roll  of  her  father's  musical  composition, 
Das  hohe  Lied,  which  she  carries  with  her  from 
childhood  until  her  final  submission  to  circum- 
stances, and  which  saves  her  body  from  suicide  but 
not  her  soul  from  death,  is  emblematic  of  the  dan 
which  she  has  in  her  heart.  With  the  best  inten- 
tions in  the  world,  with  noble,  romantic  sentiments, 
with  a  passionate  desire  to  be  a  rescuing  angel  to 

152 


HERMANN   SUDERMANN 

the  men  and  women  whom  she  meets,  she  gradually 
sinks  in  the  mire,  until,  at  the  end,  her  case  is  hope- 
less. She  struggles  desperately,  but  each  struggle 
finds  her  stock  of  resistance  reduced.  She  always 
ends  by  taking  the  easiest  way.  Like  a  person  in 
a  quicksand,  every  effort  to  escape  sinks  the  body 
deeper;  or,  like  a  drowning  man,  the  more  he  raises 
his  hands  to  heaven,  the  more  speedy  is  his  destruction. 
Much  of  Lilly's  degradation  is  caused  by  what  she 
believes  to  be  an  elevating  altruistic  impulse.  And 
when  she  finally  meets  the  only  man  in  her  whole 
career  who  respects  her  in  his  heart,  who  really 
means  well  by  her,  and  whose  salvation  she  can 
accomplish  along  with  her  own,  —  one  single  even- 
ing, where  she  begins  with  the  best  of  intentions 
and  with  a  sincere  effort  toward  a  higher  plane, 
results  in  complete  damnation.  Then,  like  the 
heroine  in  The  Easiest  Way,  she  determines  to  com- 
mit suicide,  and  really  means  to  do  it.  But  the  same 
weakness  that  has  made  it  hitherto  impossible  for 
her  to  triumph  over  serious  obstacles,  prevents  her 
from  taking  this  last  decisive  step.  As  she  hears 
the  splash  of  her  talisman  in  the  cold,  dark  water, 
she  realises  that  she  is  not  the  stuff  of  which  heroine 
are  made,  either  in  life  or  in  death. 

"And  as  she  heard  that  sound,  then  she  knew  instantly 
that  she  would  never  do  it.  —  No  indeed !  Lilly  Czepanek 
was  no  Heroine.      No  martyr  of  her  love  was  Lilly  Czepanek. 

153 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

No  Isolde,  who  in  the  determination  not  to  be,  sees  the  highest 
self-assertion.  She  was  only  a  poor  brittle,  crushed,  broken 
thing,  who  must  drag  along  through  her  days  as  best  she  can." 

And  with  this  realisation  she  goes  wearily  back  to 
a  rich  lover  she  had  definitely  forsaken,  knowing 
that  in  saving  her  life  she  has  now  lost  it  for  ever. 
This  is  the  last  page  of  the  story,  but  unfortunately 
it  does  not  end  here.  Herr  Sudermann  has  chosen 
to  add  one  paragraph  after  the  word  "  Schliiss."  By 
this  we  learn  that  in  the  spring  of  the  following 
year  the  aforesaid  rich  lover  marries  Lilly,  and  takes 
her  on  a  bridal  trip  to  Italy,  which  all  her  life  had 
been  in  her  dreams  the  celestial  country.  She  is 
thus  saved  from  the  awful  fate  of  the  streets,  which 
during  the  whole  book  had  loomed  threatening  in 
the  distance.  But  this  ending  leaves  us  completely 
bewildered  and  depressed.  It  seems  to  imply  that, 
after  all,  these  successive  steps  in  moral  decline  do 
not  make  much  difference,  one  way  or  the  other; 
for  at  the  very  beginning  of  her  career  she  could 
not  possibly  have  hoped  for  any  better  material  fate 
than  this.  The  reader  not  only  feels  cheated;  he 
feels  that  the  moral  element  in  the  story,  which 
through  all  the  scenes  of  vice  has  been  made  clear, 
is  now  laughed  at  by  the  author.  This  is  why  I  call 
the  book  the  most  pessimistic  of  all  Sudermann's 
writings.  A  novel  may  take  us  through  woe  and 
sin,  and  yet  not  produce  any   impression   of   cyni- 

154 


HERMANN   SUDERMANN 

cism;  but  one  that  makes  a  careful,  serious  study 
of  subtle  moral  decay  through  over  six  hundred 
pages,  and  then  implies  at  the  end  that  the  dis- 
tinction between  vice  and  virtue  is,  after  all,  a  matter 
of  no  consequence,  leaves  an  impression  for  which 
the  proverbial  "bad  taste  in  the  mouth"  is  utterly 
inadequate  to  describe.  Some  years  ago.  Professor 
Heller,  in  an  admirable  book  on  Modern  German 
Literature,  remarked,  in  a  comparison  between 
Hauptmann  and  Sudermann,  that  the  former  has 
no  working  theory  of  life,  which  the  latter  possessed. 
That  Hauptmann's  dramas  offer  no  solution,  merely 
giving  sordid  wretchedness;  while  Sudermann  shows 
the  conquest  of  environment  by  character.  Or,  as 
Mr.  Heller  puts  it,  there  is  the  contrast  between 
the  "driving  and  the  drifting."  I  think  this  dis- 
tinction in  the  main  will  justify  itself  to  anyone  who 
makes  a  thoughtful  comparison  of  the  work  of  these 
two  remarkable  men.  Despite  the  depreciation 
of  Sudermann  and  the  idolatry  of  Hauptmann,  an 
attitude  so  fashionable  among  German  critics  at 
present,  I  believe  that  the  works  of  the  former  have 
shown  a  stronger  grasp  of  life.  But  the  final  para- 
graph of  Das  hohe  Lied  is  a  staggering  blow  to 
those  of  us  who  have  felt  that  Sudermann  had  some 
kind  of  a  Weltanschauung.  It  is  like  Chopin's 
final  movement  in  his  great  Sonata;  mocking  laugh- 
ter follows  the  solemn  tones  of  the  Funeral  March. 

155 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

Up  to  this  last  bad  business,  Das  hohe  Lied  ex- 
hibits that  extraordinary  power  of  psychological 
analysis  that  we  have  come  to  expect  from  Suder- 
mann.  Lilly,  apart  from  her  personal  beauty,  is  not, 
after  all,  an  interesting  girl;  her  mind  is  thoroughly 
shallow  and  commonplace.  Nor  are  the  numerous 
adventures  through  which  she  passes  particularly 
interesting.  And  yet  the  long  book  is  by  no  means 
dull,  and  one  reads  it  with  steady  attention.  The 
reason  for  this  becomes  clear,  after  some  reflexion. 
Not  only  are  we  absorbed  by  the  contemplation  of 
so  masterly  a  piece  of  mental  analysis,  but  what 
interests  us  most  is  the  constant  attempt  of  Lilly 
to  analyse  herself.  We  often  wonder  how  people 
appear  to  themselves.  The  unspoken  dialogues 
between  Lilly  and  her  own  soul  are  amazingly  well 
done.  She  is  constantly  surprised  by  herself,  con- 
stantly bewildered  by  the  fact  that  what  she  thought 
was  one  set  of  motives,  turns  out  to  be  quite  other- 
wise. All  this  comes  to  a  great  climax  in  the  scene 
late  at  night  when  she  writes  first  one  letter,  then 
another  —  each  one  meaning  to  be  genuinely  con- 
fessional. Each  letter  is  to  give  an  absolutely  faith- 
ful account  of  her  life,  with  a  perfectly  truthful  de- 
piction of  her  real  character.  Now  the  two  letters 
are  so  different  that  in  one  she  appears  to  be  alow- 
lived  adventuress,  and  in  the  other  a  noble  woman, 
deceived  through  what  is  noblest  in  her.     Finally 

156 


HERMANN   SUDERMANN 

she  tears  both  up,  for  she  realises  that  although 
each  letter  gives  the  facts,  neither  tells  the  truth. 
And  then  she  sees  that  the  truth  cannot  be  told; 
that  life  is  far  too  complex  to  be  put  into  language. 
/  In  the  attempts  of  German  critics  years  ago  to 
"classify"  Sudermarm,  he  was  commonly  placed 
in  one  of  the  three  following  groups.  Many  in- 
sisted that  he  was  merely  a  Decadent,  whose  pleasure 
it  was  to  deal  in  unhealthy  social  problems.  That 
his  interest  in  humanity  was  pathological.  Others 
held  that  he  was  a  fierce  social  Reformer,  a  kind  of 
John  the  Baptist,  who  wished  to  reconstruct  modern 
society  along  better  lines,  and  who  was  therefore 
determined  to  make  society  realise  its  own  rotten- 
ness. He  was  primarily  a  Satirist,  not  a  Decadent. 
Professor  Calvin  Thomas  quoted  (without  appro- 
bation) Professor  Litzmann  of  Bonn,  who  said  that 
Sudermann  was  ''a  born  satirist,  not  one  of  the  tame 
sort  who  only  tickle  and  scratch,  but  one  of  the 
stamp  of  Juvenal,  who  swings  his  scourge  with  fierce 
satisfaction  so  that  the  blood  starts  from  the  soft, 
voluptuous  flesh."  A  reading  of  Das  holie  Lied 
will  convince  anyone  that  Sudermann,  wherever 
he  is,  is  not  among  the  prophets.  Finally,  there  V- 
were  many  critics  who  at  the  very  start  recognised 
Sudermann  as  primarily  an  artist,  who  chooses  to 
paint  the  aspects  of  life  that  interest  him.  This 
is  undoubtedly  the  true  viewpoint.    We  may  regret 

157 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

that  he  prefers  to  analyse  human  characters  in 
morbid  and  abnormal  development,  but  that,  after 
all,  is  his  affair,  and  we  do  not  have  to  read  him 
unless  we  wish  to.  Professor  Thomas,  in  an  ad- 
mirable article  on  Das  Gliick  im  Winkel,  contributed 
in  1895  to  the  New  York  Nation,  said,  "Sudermann 
is  a  man  of  the  world,  a  psychologist,  and  an  artist, 
not  a  voice  crying  in  the  wilderness.  The  im- 
mortality of  Juvenal  or  Jeremiah  would  not  be  to 
his  taste."  It  is  vain  to  quarrel  with  the  direction 
taken  by  genius,  however  much  we  may  deplore  its 
course.  Sudermann  is  one  of  the  greatest,  if  not 
the  greatest,  of  Germany's  living  writers,  and  every 
play  or  novel  from  his  pen  contains  much  material 
for  serious  thought. 


158 


VIII 

ALFRED   OLLIVANT 

In  the  month  of  September,  1898,  there  appeared 
in  America  a  novel  with  the  attractive  title,  Bob, 
Son  of  Battle.  Unheralded  by  author's  fame  or  by 
the  blare  of  advertisement,  it  was  at  first  unnoticed; 
but  in  about  a  twelvemonth  everybody  was  talking 
about  it.  It  became  one  of  the  "best  sellers"; 
unlike  its  companions,  it  has  not  vanished  with 
the  snows  of  yesteryear.  At  this  moment  it  is  being 
read  and  reread  all  over  the  United  States.  I  do 
not  believe  there  is  a  single  large  town  in  our  country 
where  the  book  is  unknown,  or  where  a  reference 
to  it  fails  to  bring  to  the  faces  of  intelligent  people 
that  glow  of  reminiscent  delight  aroused  by  the 
memory  of  happy  hours  passed  in  the  world  of  im- 
agination. It  seemed  so  immensely  superior  to  the 
ordinary  run  of  new  novels,  that  we  gazed  with 
pardonable  curiosity  at  the  unfamiliar  signature  on 
the  title-page.  Who  was  this  writer  who  knew  so 
much  of  the  nature  of  dogs  and  men?  Where  had 
he  found  that  extraordinarily  vivid  style,  and  what 

159 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

experiences  had  he  passed  through  that  gave  him 
his  subtle  insight  into  character?  But  all  that  we 
could  then  discover  was  that  Alfred  Ollivant  was 
an  Englishman,  and  that  Boh  was  his  first  novel. 
We  decided  that  he  must  have  lived  long,  observed 
all  kinds  of  dogs,  and  a  large  variety  of  men,  women, 
and  children;  and  that  for  some  reason  best  known 
to  himself  he  had  chosen  to  print  nothing  until  he 
had  descended  into  the  vale  of  years.  For  only  the 
other  day  we  were  not  surprised  to  find  that  Joseph 
Vatice  was  the  winter  fruit  of  a  man  nearly  seventy; 
that  book  at  any  rate  was  the  expression  of  a  man 
who  had  had  life,  and  had  it  abundantly. 

Our  astonishment  was  keen  indeed  when  we  learned 
that  the  author  of  Bob  was  a  boy  just  out  of  his 
teens,  who  had  written  his  wonderful  book  in  hori- 
zontal pain  and  weakness.  He  had  entered  the 
army,  receiving  his  commission  as  a  cavalry  officer 
in  1893,  at  the  age  of  nineteen;  a  few  weeks  after 
this  event,  a  fall  from  his  horse  injured  his  spine, 
previously  affected  by  some  mysterious  malady; 
this  accident  abruptly  checked  his  chosen  military 
career,  and  made  him  a  man  of  letters.  Literature 
owes  a  great  deal  to  enforced  idleness,  whether  the 
writer  be  sick  or  in  prison.  The  wind  bloweth 
where  it  listeth;  and  we  perceived  once  more  that 
genius  docs  not  always  accompany  good  health, 
or  maturity,  or  ambition;    it  seems  to  select  with 

160 


ALFRED   OLLIVANT 

absolute  caprice  the  individuals  through  whom  it 
speaks.  And  so  this  first-born  child  of  the  brain 
was  delivered,  like  human  infants,  on  a  bed  of 
suffering;  being,  to  complete  the  analogy,  none 
the  less  healthy  on  that  account.  The  book  was 
begun  in  1894,  when  the  author  was  twenty  years 
old;  during  intervals  of  physical  capacity  in  1895 
and  1896,  it  was  continued,  and  was  submitted  to 
the  publishers  in  1897. 

It  was  to  have  been  published  in  the  autumn, 
but  the  London  firm  decided  to  postpone  its  ap- 
pearance one  year.  The  author  employed  these 
months  in  completely  rewriting  the  story,  which 
he  had  named  Owd  Bob.  Meanwhile,  the  New 
York  publishers,  who  had  a  copy  of  the  original 
manuscript,  fearing  that  the  title  Owd  Bob  lacked 
magnetism,  wisely  rechristened  it  Bob,  Son  of 
Battle,  And  so,  in  September,  1898,  the  novel  in 
its  first  form,  but  with  a  new  name,  was  printed 
in  America;  simultaneously  in  England  it  appeared 
in  a  new  form,  but  with  the  old  name.  In  other 
words,  the  London  first  edition,  Owd  Bob,  is  a 
thoroughly  revised  version  of  the  American  first 
edition.  Bob,  Son  of  Battle,  although  they  were 
published  at  the  same  time.  It  does  not  seem  as 
though  the  author  could  have  improved  a  book  that 
so  completely  satisfies  us  as  it  stands;  and  Ameri- 
cans, to  whom  Owd  Bob  is  unknown,  may  not  be- 
M  161 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

lieve  that  it  can  be  superior  to  Boh,  Son  of  Battle. 
Nevertheless  it  is.  The  two  versions  are  of  course 
alike  in  general  features  of  the  plot  and  in  outline; 
but  no  one  who  has  read  both  can  hesitate  an  instant. 
One  has  only  to  compare  the  manner  in  which  Red 
Wull  made  his  debut  in  America  with  the  chapter 
where  he  first  appears  (in  a  totally  different  way) 
in  the  English  edition,  to  see  how  clearly  second 
thoughts  were  best. 

And  yet,  despite  the  enormous  popularity  of  Boh, 
Son  of  Battle  in  the  United  States,  and  despite  the 
fact  that  Englishmen  had  the  opportunity  to  read 
the  story  in  a  still  finer  form,  it  has  not  until  very 
recently  made  any  impression  on  British  readers 
or  on  London  critics.  Is  it  possible  that  a  book, 
like  a  dog,  may  be  killed  by  a  bad  name?  The 
novel  was  written  by  an  Englishman,  the  scenes  were 
laid  in  Britain,  it  dealt  with  manners  and  customs 
peculiarly  English,  and  it  was  aimed  directly  at 
an  English  public.  And  yet,  for  nearly  ten  years 
after  its  publication,  Owd  Boh  remained  in  obscurity.* 
But  its  day  is  coming,  and  the  prophet  will  yet  re- 
ceive honour  in  his  own  country.  In  1908  it  was 
reprinted  in  a  seven-pence  edition,  of  which  fifty 

*  A  year  or  two  ago  I  asked  one  of  the  foremost  English  dram- 
atists, one  of  the  foremost  English  novelists,  and  one  of  the 
foremost  English  critics,  men  whose  names  are  known  everywhere 
in  America,  if  they  had  read  Bob;  not  one  of  them  had  ever  heard 
of  the  book. 

162 


ALFRED    OLLIVANT 

thousand  copies  have  already  seen  the  light.  This 
is  nothing  to  the  American  circulation;  but  it  is 
promising.  Bearing  in  mind  the  futility  of  literary 
prophecy,  I  still  believe  that  the  day  will  come  when 
Owd  Boh  will  be  generally  recognised  as  belonging 
to  English  literature. 

The  splendid  fidelity  and  devotion  of  the  dog  to 
his  master  have  certainly  been  in  part  repaid  by 
men  of  letters  in  all  stages  of  the  world's  history. 
A  valuable  essay  might  be  written  on  the  dog's 
contributions  to  literature ;  in  the  poetry  of  the  East, 
hundreds  of  years  before  Christ,  the  poor  Indian 
insisted  that  his  four-footed  friend  should  accompany 
him  into  eternity.  We  know  that  this  bit  of  Oriental 
pathos  impressed  Pope :  — 

"  But  thinks,  admitted  to  that  equal  sky, 
His  faithful  dog  shall  bear  him  company." 

One  of  the  most  profoundly  affecting  incidents  in 
the  Odyssey  is  the  recognition  of  the  ragged  Ulysses 
by  the  noble  old  dog,  who  dies  of  joy.  During  the 
last  half-century,  since  the  publication  of  Dr.  John 
Brown's  Rah  and  his  Friends  (1858),  the  dog  has 
approached  an  apotheosis.  Among  innumerable 
sketches  and  stories  with  canine  heroes  may  be 
mentioned  Bret  Harte's  brilliant  portrait  of  Boonder; 
Maeterlinck's  essay  on  dogs;  Richard  Harding 
Davis's   The    Bar  Sinister;    Stevenson's  whimsical 

163 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

comments  on  The  Character  of  Dogs;  Kipling's 
Garm;  and  Jack  London's  initial  success,  The  Call 
of  the  Wild}  But  all  these  latter-day  pam- 
phlets, good  as  they  are,  fail  to  reach  the  excel- 
lence of  Boh,  Son  of  Battle.  It  is  the  best  dog 
story  ever  written,  and  it  inspires  regret  that  dogs 
cannot  read. 

No  one  who  knows  Mr.  Ollivant's  tale  can  by 
any  possibility  forget  the  Grey  Dog  of  Kenmuir  — 
the  perfect,  gentle  knight  —  or  the  thrilling  excite- 
ment of  his  successful  struggles  for  the  cup.  He 
is  indeed  a  noble  and  beautiful  character,  with  the 
Christian  combination  of  serpent  and  dove.  But 
Owd  Bob  in  a  slight  degree  shares  the  fate  of  all 
beings  who  approach  moral  perfection.  He  reminds 
us  at  times  of  Tennyson's  Arthur  in  the  Idylls  of 
the  King,  though  he  fortunately  delivers  no  lectures. 
Lancelot  was  wicked,  and  Arthur  was  good;  but 
Lancelot  has  the  touch  of  earth  that  makes  him 
interesting,  and  Arthur  has  more  than  a  touch  of 
boredom.  In  Paradise  Lost  the  spotless  Raphael 
docs  not  compare  in  charm  with  the  picturesque 
Foe  of  God  and  Man.  The  real  hero  in  Milton,  as 
I  susj)ect  the  poet  very  well  knew,  is  the  Devil; 
and  if  Mr.  Ollivant  had  ignored  both  English  and 

*  One  may  fairly  class  with  this  literature  the  remarkable 
speech  on  dogs  delivered  in  his  youth  in  a  courtroom  by  the  late 
Senator  Vest.     The  speech  won  the   case  against   the  evidence. 

164 


ALFRED   OLLIVANT 

American  godfathers,  and  called  his  novel  The 
Tailless  Tyke,  no  reader  could  have  objected. 
Red  Wull  is  the  Satan  of  this  canine  epic;  he  has 
for  us  a  fascination  at  once  horrible  and  irresistible. 
The  author  seems  to  have  felt  that  the  Grey  Dog 
was  overshadowed;  and  he  has  saved  our  active 
sympathy  for  him  by  the  clever  device  of  making 
him  at  one  time  dangerously  ill,  when  we  realise 
how  much  we  love  him;  and  finally  by  throwing 
him  under  awful  suspicion,  that  we  may  experience 
—  as  we  certainly  do  —  the  enormous  relief  of  be- 
holding him  guiltless.  But  in  spite  of  our  best 
instincts,  Red  Wull  is  the  protagonist.  Dog  and 
master  have  never  been  matched  in  a  more  sinister 
manner  than  Adam  McAdam  and  the  Tailless  Tyke. 
Bill  Sikes  and  his  companion  are  nothing  to  it, 
and  we  cannot  help  remembering  that  to  the  eternal 
disgrace  of  dogs.  Bill  Sikes's  last  friend  forsook  him. 
Compared  with  Red  Wull,  the  Hound  of  the  Bas- 
kervilles  is  a  pet  lapdog.  When  Adam  and  Wullie 
appear  upon  the  scene,  we  look  alive,  even  as  their 
virtuous  enemies  were  forced  to  do,  for  we  know 
something  is  bound  to  happen.  When  the  little 
man  is  greeted  with  a  concert  of  hoots  and  jeers, 
we  cannot  repress  some  sympathy  for  him,  akin 
to  our  feeling  toward  the  would-be  murderer  Shy- 
lock,  silent  and  solitary  under  the  noisy  taunts 
of  the  feather-headed   Gratiano.    This    bitter  and 

165 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

lonely  wretch  is  a  real  character,  and  his  strange 
personality  is  presented  with  extraordinary  skill. 
There  is  not  a  single  false  touch  from  first  to  last; 
and  the  little  man  with  the  big  dog  abides  in  our 
memory.  Red  Wull  is  the  hero  of  a  hundred  fights; 
his  tremendous  and  terrible  exploits  are  the  very 
essence  of  piratical  romance.  After  he  has  slain 
the  two  huge  beasts  of  the  showman,  McAdam 
exclaims  with  a  sob  of  paternal  pride,  "Ye  play  so 
rough,  Wullie ! " 

And  the  death  of  the  Tailless  Tyke  is  positively 
Homeric.  The  other  dogs,  all  his  ruthless  enemies, 
whisper  to  each  other  and  silently  steal  from  the 
room.  They  know  that  the  hour  has  struck,  and 
that  this  will  be  the  last  fight.  The  whole  pack 
set  upon  him,  each  one  goaded  by  the  remembrance 
of  some  murdered  relative,  or  by  some  humiliating 
scar.  Red  Wull  asks  nothing  better  than  meeting 
them  all;  and  the  unequal  combat  becomes  a  fright- 
ful carnage.  At  the  very  end,  as  much  exhausted 
by  the  labour  of  killing  as  by  his  own  wounds,  the 
great  dog  —  now  red  indeed  —  hears  his  master's 
familiar  cry,  "Wullie,  to  me!"  and  with  a  super- 
canine  effort  he  raises  his  dying  form  from  the  bot- 
tom of  the  writhing  mass,  shakes  off  the  surviving 
foes,  and  slowly  staggers  to  McAdam's  feet.  Like 
Samson,  the  dead  which  he  slew  at  his  death  were 
more  than  they  which  he  slew  in  his  life. 

1 66 


ALFRED    OLLIVANT 

Mr.  Ollivant's  next  book,  Danny,  also  a  dog 
story,  was  not  nearly  so  effective.  The  human 
characters  command  the  most  attention,  though 
the  old  man  with  the  weeping  eye  becomes  a  bit 
wearisome.  The  passages  of  pure  nature  descrip- 
tion are  often  exquisitely  written,  and  prove  that  at 
heart  the  author  is  a  poet.  But  in  the  narrative 
portions  there  is  an  unfortunate  attempt  to  conceal 
the  slightncss  of  the  story  by  preciosity  and  affecta- 
tion in  the  style.  For  the  simple  truth  is  that  in 
Danny  there  is  no  story  worth  the  telling.  We 
recall  distinctly  the  lovely  young  wife  and  her  grim 
ironclad  of  a  husband,  but  just  what  happened 
between  the  covers  of  the  book  escapes  us.  Al- 
though Air.  Ollivant  believes  in  Danny,  in  spite  of 
or  because  of  its  lack  of  popularity,  he  was  so 
dissatisfied  with  the  American  edition  that  he 
suppressed  it.  Such  an  act  is  an  indication  of  the 
high  artistic  standard  that  he  has  set  for  himself; 
ambitious  as  he  is,  he  would  rather  merit  fame 
than  have  it. 

While  the  readers  of  Boh  and  of  Danny  were 
guessing  what  kind  of  a  dog  the  young  author  would 
select  for  his  next  novel,  he  surprised  us  all  by 
writing  an  uncaninical  work.  This  story,  adorned 
with  happy  illustrations,  and  printed  in  big  type, 
as  though  for  the  eyes  of  children,  was  called  Red- 
Coat   Captain,   and   was   enigmatically   located    in 

167 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

"That  Country."  Every  American  publisher  to 
whom  the  manuscript  was  offered,  rejected  it,  say- 
ing emphatically  that  it  was  nonsense;  and  if  there 
had  not  been  a  strain  of  idealism  in  the  Head  of 
the  firm  that  reconsidered  and  finally  printed  it, 
the  book  would  probably  never  have  felt  the  press. 
Mr.  Ollivant  was  sure  that  the  story  would  appeal 
at  first  only  to  a  very  few,  and  he  requested  the 
publisher  not  only  to  refrain  from  issuing  any  ad- 
vertisement, but  to  make  the  entire  first  edition 
consist  of  only  three  copies  —  one  for  the  archives  of 
the  House,  one  for  the  author,  and  one  for  a  be- 
lieving friend.  The  children  of  this  world  are  wiser 
in  their  generation  than  the  children  of  light;  and 
the  shrewd  man  of  business  did  not  take  the  peti- 
tion very  seriously.  The  verdict  Nonsense  has  been 
loudly  ratified  by  many  reviewers  and  readers;  to 
the  few  it  has  been  wisdom,  to  the  many  foolish- 
ness. For,  as  was  said  years  ago  of  a  certain 
poem,  "The  capacity  to  understand  such  a  work 
must  be  spiritual."  It  matters  not  how  clever  one 
may  be,  how  well  read,  how  sensitive  to  artistic 
beauties  and  defects;  qualities  of  a  totally  different 
nature  must  be  present,  and  even  then  the  time  and 
place  must  be  right,  if  one  is  to  seize  the  inner  mean- 
ing of  Red-Coat  Captain.  I  was  about  to  say,  the 
inner  meaning  of  a  story  like  Red-Coat  Captain, 
but  I  was  stopped  by  the  thought  that  no  story  like 

1 68 


ALFRED   OLLIVANT 

it  has  ever  been  published,  and  perhaps  never  will 
be.  Both  conception  and  expression  are  profoundly 
original,  and,  in  spite  of  some  failure  of  articula- 
tion, the  work  is  strongly  marked  with  genius.  It 
is  an  allegory  based  on  the  eleventh  and  twelfth 
commandments,  which  we  have  good  authority  for 
believing  are  worth  all  the  ten  put  together.  From 
one  point  of  view  it  is  a  book  for  children;  the 
mysterious  setting  of  the  tale  is  sure  to  appeal  to 
certain  imaginative  boys  and  girls.  But  the  early 
chapters,  dealing  with  the  pretty  courtship  and  the 
honeymoon,  will  be  fully  appreciated  only  by  those 
who  have  some  years  to  their  credit  or  otherwise. 
There  is  in  this  story  the  ineffable  charm  and  fra- 
grance of  purity.  It  is  the  lily  in  its  author's  garden, 
Mr.  Ollivant's  latest  novel  is  the  most  conven- 
tional of  the  four,  and  wholly  unlike  any  of  its 
predecessors.  It  is  a  rattling,  riotous  romance,  placed 
in  the  troublous  times  of  the  Napoleonic  wars. 
The  mighty  shadow  of  Nelson  falls  darkly  across 
the  narrative,  but  the  author  has  not  committed 
the  sin  —  so  common  in  historical  romances  —  of 
making  a  historical  character  the  chief  of  the  dram- 
atis personcB.  The  title  role  is  played  by  The 
Gentleman,  and  he  is  a  hero  worthy  of  Cooper  or  of 
Stevenson.  Marked  by  reckless  audacity,  brilliant 
in  swordplay  and  in  horsemanship,  clever  in  turn 
of  speech,  gifted  with  the  manner  of  a  pre-Revolu- 

169 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

tion  Duke  —  what  more  in  the  heroic  line  can  a 
reader  desire?  The  architecture  of  the  novel  and 
the  staccato  paragraphs  infallibly  remind  one  of 
Victor  Hugo,  whom,  however,  Mr.  Ollivant  does 
not  know.  Nor,  outside  of  the  works  of  Stevenson, 
have  we  ever  seen  a  story  minus  love  so  steadily 
interesting.  It  is  an  amphibious  book,  and  those 
who  like  fighting  on  land  and  sea  may  have  their  fill. 
The  percentage  of  mortality  is  high;  soldiers  and 
sailors  die  numerously,  and  the  hideous  details  of 
death  are  worthy  of  La  Debacle;  there  is  a  welter 
of  gore.  If  this  were  all  that  could  be  said,  if  the 
fascination  of  this  romance  depended  wholly  on 
the  crowded  action,  it  would  simply  be  one  more 
exciting  tale  added  to  the  hundreds  published  every 
year;  good  to  read  on  train  and  turbine,  but  not 
worth  serious  attention  or  criticism.  But  the  in- 
cidents, while  frequent  and  thrilling,  are  not,  at 
least  to  the  discriminating  reader,  the  main  thing, 
as  the  Germans  say.  Nor  is  the  construction,  clever 
enough,  nor  the  characters,  real  as  they  are;  the 
main  thing  is  the  style,  which,  quite  different  from 
that  in  his  former  books,  is  yet  all  his  own.  The 
style,  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word,  is  pictorial;  it 
transforms  the  past  into  the  present.  The  succes- 
sion of  events  rolls  off  like  a  glowing  panorama. 
It  is  perhaps  natural  that  many  reviewers  should 
have  praised  The  Gentleman  more  highly  than  all 

170 


ALFRED    OLLIVANT 

the  rest  of  Mr.  Ollivant's  work  put  together;  but, 
notwithstanding  its  wider  appeal,  it  lacks  the  per- 
manent qualities  of  Boh,  and  (I  believe)  of  Red- 
Coat  Captain,  for  they  arc  original. 

That  Mr.  OUivant  is  now  on  the  road  to  physical 
health  will  be  good  news.  He  has  already  done 
work  that  no  one  else  can  do,  and  we  cannot  spare 
him.  His  four  novels  indicate  versatility  as  well 
as  much  greater  gifts;  and  he  should  be  watched 
by  all  who  take  an  interest  in  contemporary  litera- 
ture and  who  believe  that  the  future  is  as  rich  as 
the  past.  Boh  looks  like  the  best  English  novel 
that  has  appeared  between  Tess  of  the  D'Urber- 
villes  in  1891,  and  Joseph  Vance  in  1906.  Nothing 
but  bodily  obstacles  can  prevent  its  author  from 
going  far. 


171 


IX 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

Stevenson  spent  his  life,  like  an  only  and  lonely 
child,  in  playing  games  with  himself.  Most  boys 
who  read  romances  have  the  dramatic  instinct; 
they  must  forthwith  incarnate  the  memories  of  their 
reading,  and  anything  will  do  for  a  mise  en  scbne. 
The  mudpuddle  becomes  an  ocean,  where  the  pirate 
ship  is  launched;  a  scrubby  apple  tree  has  infinite 
possibilities.  Armed  with  a  wooden  sword,  the 
child  sallies  forth  in  the  rain,  and  fiercely  cuts  down 
the  mulleins;  could  we  only  see  him  without  being 
seen,  we  should  observe  the  wild  light  in  his  eye, 
and  the  frown  of  battle  on  his  brow.  He  walks 
cautiously  in  the  underbrush,  to  surprise  the  am- 
bushed foe;  and  it  is  with  rapture  that  he  goes  to 
sleep  in  a  tent,  pitched  six  yards  from  the  kitchen 
door.  This  spirit  of  adventure  remains  in  some 
men's  hearts,  even  after  the  hair  has  grown  grey  or 
gone;  they  hear  the  call  of  the  wild,  lock  up  the 
desk,  go  into  the  woods,  and  there  rejoice  in  a  process 
of  decivilisation. 

In  order  to  enjoy  life,  one  must  love  it;  and  no- 
172 


ROBERT   LOUIS   STEVENSON 

body  ever  loved  life  more  than  Stevenson.  "It  is 
better  to  be  a  fool  than  to  be  dead,"  said  he.  To 
him  the  world  was  always  picturesque,  whether  he 
saw  it  through  the  mists  of  Edinburgh,  or  amid  the 
snows  of  Davos,  or  in  the  tropical  heat  of  Samoa. 
"Where  is  Samoa?"  asked  a  friend.  "Go  out  of 
the  Golden  Gate,"  replied  Stevenson,  "and  take 
the  first  turn  to  the  left."  This  counsel  makes  up 
in  joyous  imagination  what  it  lacks  in  latitude  and 
longitude.  Everything  in  Stevenson's  bodily  and 
mental  life  was  an  adventure,  to  be  begun  in  a  spirit 
of  reckless  enthusiasm.  In  his  travels  with  a  donkey, 
he  was  a  beloved  vagabond,  whose  wayside  ac- 
quaintances are  to  be  envied;  in  compulsory  ex- 
peditions in  search  of  health,  he  set  out  with  as 
much  zest  as  though  he  were  after  buried  treasure; 
everything  was  an  adventure,  and  his  marriage  was 
the  greatest  adventure  of  all.  He  read  books  with 
the  same  enthusiasm  with  which  he  tramped,  or 
paddled  in  a  canoe;  every  new  novel  he  opened 
with  the  spirit  of  an  explorer,  for  who  knows  in  its 
pages  what  people  one  may  meet?  William  Archer 
sent  him  a  copy  of  Bernard  Shaw's  story,  Cashel 
Byron's  Profession,  and  Stevenson  wrote  in  reply 
from  Saranac  Lake,  "Over  Bashville  the  footman 
I  howled  with  derision  and  delight;  I  dote  on 
Bashville  —  I  could  read  of  him  for  ever ;  de  Bash- 
ville je  suis  le  fervent  —  there  is  only  one  Bashville, 

173 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

and  I  am  his  devoted  slave.  ...  It  is  all  mad, 
mad  and  deliriously  delightful.  ...  It  is  Horrid 
Fun.  ...  (I  say,  Archer,  my  God,  what  women !)" 
What  would  authors  give  for  a  reading  public  like  that  ? 

Prone  in  bed,  when  his  attention  was  not  diverted 
by  a  hemorrhage,  he  lived  amid  the  pageantry  of 
gorgeous  day-dreams,  presented  on  the  stage  of 
his  brain.  We  know  that  Ben  Jonson  saw  the 
Romans  and  Carthaginians  fighting,  marching 
and  countermarching,  across  his  great  toe.  Steven- 
son would  have  understood  this  perfectly.  No  pain 
or  sickness  ever  daunted  him,  or  held  him  captive; 
his  mind  was  always  in  some  picturesque  or  im- 
mensely interesting  place.  In  composition,  he  seemed 
to  have  a  double  consciousness;  he  moulded  his 
sentences  with  the  fastidious  care  of  a  great  artist; 
at  the  same  moment  he  felt  the  growing  sea-breeze, 
and  knew  that  his  hero  would  very  soon  have  to 
shorten  sail. 

It  is  pleasant  to  remember  that  a  man  who  had 
such  genius  for  friendship,  who  so  generously  ad- 
mired the  literary  work  of  his  contemporaries,  and 
who  loved  the  whole  world  of  saints  and  sinners, 
received  such  widespread  homage  in  return.  His 
career  as  a  man  of  letters  extended  over  twenty 
years ;  and  during  the  last  eight  his  name  was  actu- 
ally a  household  word.  To  be  sure,  he  published 
much  work  of  a  high  order  without  getting  even  a 

174 


ROBERT   LOUIS   STEVENSON 

hearing ;  his  Inland  Voyage,  Travels  with  a  Donkey, 
Virginihus  Puerisque,  Familiar  Studies,  New  Ara- 
bian Nights,  and  even  Treasure  Island,  attracted 
very  little  attention;  he  remained  in  obscurity. 
But  when,  in  the  year  1886,  appeared  the  Strange 
Case  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  M-r.  Hyde,  he  found  himself 
famous;  the  thrilling  excitement  of  the  story,  com- 
bined with  its  powerful  moral  appeal,  simply  con- 
quered the  world.  And  although  his  own  plays  were 
failures,  he  had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that 
thousands  of  people  in  theatres  were  spellbound 
by  the  modern  Morality  made  out  of  his  novel. 
Few  writers  have  become  "classics"  in  so  short  a 
time;  during  the  years  that  remained  to  him,  he 
was  compelled  to  prepare  a  superb  edition  of  his 
Complete  Works.  Without  ever  appealing  to  the 
animal  nature  of  humanity,  he  had  the  keen  satis- 
faction of  reigning  in  the  hearts  of  uncultivated 
readers,  and  of  receiving  the  almost  universal 
tribute  of  refined  critics.  There  are  authors  who  are 
the  delight  of  a  bookish  few,  and  there  are  authors 
with  an  enormous  public  and  no  reputation.  There 
are  poets  like  Donne,  and  prose-masters  like  Browne, 
precious  to  the  men  and  women  of  patrician  taste ;  and 
there  are  some  familiar  examples  of  the  other  kind, 
needless  to  call  by  name.  Stevenson  pleases  us  all; 
for  he  always  has  a  good  story,  and  the  subtlety  of 
his  art  gives  to  his  narrative  imperishable  beauty. 

175 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

Stevenson's  appearance  as  a  novelist  was  in  itself 
an  adventure.  He  seemed  at  first  as  obsolete  as 
a  soldier  of  fortune.  He  was  as  unexpected  and 
as  picturesque  among  contemporary  writers  of  fiction 
as  an  Elizabethan  knight  in  a  modern  drawing- 
room.  When  he  placed  Treasure  Island  on  the 
literary  map,  Realism  was  at  its  height  in  some 
localities,  and  at  its  depth  in  others.  But  it  was 
everjrwhere  the  standard  form,  in  which  young 
writers  strove  to  embody  their  visions.  Zola  had 
just  made  an  address  in  which  he  remarked  that 
Walter  Scott  was  dead,  and  that  the  fashion  of  his 
style  had  passed  away.  The  experimental  novel 
would  go  hand  in  hand  with  the  advance  of  scientific 
thought.  And  there  were  many  who  believed  that 
Zola  spoke  the  truth.  This  state  of  affairs  was  a 
tremendous  challenge  to  Stevenson,  and  he  accepted 
it  in  the  spirit  of  chivalry.  The  very  name  of  his 
first  novel,  Treasure  Island,  was  like  the  flying  of 
a  flag.  Those  critics  who  saw  it  must  have  smiled, 
and  shaken  their  wise  heads,  for  had  not  the  time 
for  such  follies  gone  by  ?  Stevenson  was  fully  aware 
of  what  he  was  doing ;  in  the  midst  of  contemporary 
fiction  he  felt  as  impatient  and  as  ill  at  ease  as  a 
boy,  imprisoned  in  a  circle  of  elders,  whose  conver- 
sation does  not  in  the  least  interest  him.  His 
sentiments  are  clearly  shown  in  a  letter  to  the  late 
Mr.  Henley,  written  shortly  after  the  appearance  of 

176 


ROBERT   LOUIS   STEVENSON 

Treasure  Island,  and  which  is  important  enough  to 
quote  somewhat  fully :  — 

"I  do  desire  a  book  of  adventure  —  a  romance  —  and  no 
man  will  get  or  write  me  one.  Dumas  I  have  read  and  re- 
read too  often;  Scott,  too,  and  I  am  short.  I  want  to  hear 
swords  clash.  I  want  a  book  to  begin  in  a  good  way;  a 
book,  I  guess,  like  Treasure  Island,  alas !  which  I  have  never 
read,  and  cannot  though  I  live  to  ninety.  I  would  God  that 
someone  else  had  written  it!  By  all  that  I  can  learn,  it  is 
the  very  book  for  my  complaint.  I  like  the  way  I  hear  it 
opens;  and  they  tell  me  John  Silver  is  good  fun.  And  to 
me  it  is,  and  must  ever  be,  a  dream  unrealised,  a  book  un- 
written. O  my  sighings  after  romance,  or  even  Skeltery, 
and  O !  the  weary  age  which  will  produce  me  neither  I 

Chapter  I 

The  night  was  damp  and  cloudy,  the  ways  foul.  The 
single  horseman,  cloaked  and  booted,  who  pursued  his  way 
across  Willesden  Common,  had  not  met  a  traveller,  when  the 
sound  of  wheels  — 

Chapter  I 

'Yes,  sir,'  said  the  old  pilot,  'she  must  have  dropped  into 
the  bay  a  little  afore  dawn.     A  queer  craft  she  looks.' 

'She  shows  no  colours,'  returned  the  young  gentleman, 
musingly. 

'They're  a-iowering  of  a  quarter-boat,  Mr.  Mark,'  re- 
sumed the  old  salt.     'We  shall  soon  know  more  of  her.' 

'Ay,'  replied  the  young  gentleman  called  Mark,  'and  here, 
Mr.  Seadrift,  comes  your  sweet  daughter  Nancy  tripping  down 
the  cliff.' 

'God  bless  her  kind  heart,  sir,'  ejaculated  old    Seadrift. 

N  177 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

Chapter  I 

The  notary,  Jean  Rossignol,  had  been  summoned  to  the 
top  of  a  great  house  in  the  Isle  St.  Louis  to  make  a  will ;  and 
now,  his  duties  finished,  wrapped  in  a  warm  roquelaure  and 
with  a  lantern  swinging  from  one  hand,  he  issued  from  the 
mansion  on  his  homeward  way.  Little  did  he  think  what 
strange  adventures  were  to  befall  him  !  — 

That  is  how  stories  should  begin.  And  I  am  offered 
Husks  instead. 

What  should  be:  WTiat  is: 

The  Filibuster's  Cache.  Aunt  Anne's  Tea  Cosy. 

Jerry  Abershaw.  Mrs.  Brierly's  Niece. 

Blood  Money:  A  Tale.  Society:  A  Novel." 

The  time  was  out  of  joint ;  but  Stevenson  was  born 
to  set  it  right.  Not  seven  years  after  the  posting 
of  this  letter,  the  recent  Romantic  Revival  had 
begun.  In  the  year  of  his  death,  1894,  it  was  in 
full  swing;  everybody  was  reading  not  only  Steven- 
son, but  The  Prisoner  of  Zenda,  A  Gentleman  of 
France,  Under  the  Red  Robe,  etc.  Whatever  we 
may  think  of  the  literary  quality  of  some  of  these 
then  popular  stories,  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  change 
was  in  many  ways  beneficial,  and  that  the  influence 
of  Stevenson  was  more  responsible  for  it  than  that 
of  any  other  one  man.  This  was  everywhere  rec- 
ognised :  in  the  Atlienmim  for  22  December,  1894, 
a  critic  remarked,  "The  Romantic  Revival  in  the 
English  novel  of  to-day  had  in  him  its  leader.  .  .  . 
But  for  him  they  might  have  been  Howclls  and 
178 


ROBERT   LOUIS   STEVENSON 

James  young  men."  As  a  germinal  writer,  Steven- 
son will  always  occupy  an  important  place  in  the 
history  of  English  prose  fiction.  And  seldom  has 
a  man  been  more  conscious  of  his  mission. 

Stevenson's  high  standing  as  an  English  classic 
depends  very  largely  on  the  excellence  of  his  literary 
style,  although  Scott  and  Cooper  won  immortality 
without  it.  (One  wonders  if  they  could  to-day.) 
When  some  fifteen  years  ago  a  few  critics  had  the 
temerity  to  suggest  that  he  was  equal,  if  not  superior, 
to  these  worthies,  it  sounded  like  blasphemy;  but 
such  an  opinion  is  not  uncommon  now,  and  may  be 
reasonably  defended.  Stevenson  lacked  in  some 
degree  the  virility  and  the  astonishing  fertility  of 
invention  possessed  by  Scott;  but  he  exhibited  a 
technical  skill  undreamed  of  by  his  great  predecessor. 
From  the  prefatory  verses  to  Treasure  Island,  we 
know  that  he  admired  Cooper;  and  he  loved  Sir 
Walter,  without  being  in  the  least  blind  to  his  faults. 
"It  is  undeniable  that  the  love  of  the  slap-dash  and 
the  shoddy  grew  upon  Scott  with  success."  He 
"  had  not  only  splendid  romantic,  but  splendid  tragic, 
gifts.  How  comes  it,  then,  that  he  could  so  often 
fob  us  off  with  languid,  inarticulate  twaddle  ? .  .  . 
He  was  a  great  day-dreamer,  a  seer  of  fit  and  beauti- 
ful and  humorous  visions,  but  hardly  a  great  artist; 
hardly,  in  the  manful  sense,  an  artist  at  all."  Ste- 
venson seems  to  have  felt  that  Scott's  deficiencies 

179 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

in  style  were  not  merely  artistic,  but  moral;  he 
lacked  the  patience  and  the  particular  kind  of  in- 
dustry required.  Scott  loved  to  tell  a  good  story, 
but  he  loved  the  story  better  than  he  did  the  telling 
of  it;  Stevenson,  on  the  other  hand,  was  fully  as 
much  absorbed  by  the  manner  of  narration  as  by 
the  narration  itself.  Stevenson  was  keenly  alive 
to  the  fact  that  writers  of  romances  did  not  seem  to 
feel  the  necessity  of  style;  whereas  those  who  wrote 
novels  wherein  nothing  happened,  felt  that  a  good 
style  atoned  for  both  the  lack  of  incident  and  the 
lack  of  ideas.  Stevenson's  articles  of  literary  faith 
apparently  included  the  dogma  that  a  mysterious, 
blood-curdling  romance  had  fully  as  much  dignity 
as  a  minute  examination  of  the  dreary,  common- 
place life  of  the  submerged;  and  that  the  former 
made  just  as  high  a  demand  on  the  endowment  and 
industry  of  a  master-artist.  If  he  had  had  not  an 
idea  in  his  head,  he  could  not  have  written  with  more 
elegance. 

There  is,  of  course,  some  truth  in  the  charge  that 
Stevenson  was  not  only  a  master  of  style,  but  a 
stylist.  He  is  indeed  something  of  a  macaroni  in 
words;  occasionally  he  struts  a  bit,  and  he  loves 
to  show  his  brilliant  plumes.  He  performed  dex- 
terous tricks  with  language,  like  a  musician  with  a 
difiicult  instrument.  He  liked  style  for  its  own 
sake,  and  was  not  averse  to  exhibiting  his  technique. 

1 80 


ROBERT   LOUIS   STEVENSON 

In  a  slight  degree,  his  attitude  and  his  influence  in 
mere  composition  are  somewhat  similar  to  those  of 
John  Lyly  three  hundred  years  before.  Lyly  de- 
lighted his  readers  with  unexpected  quips  and  quid- 
dities, with  a  fantastic  display  of  rhetoric;  he 
showed,  as  no  one  had  before  him,  the  possible 
flexibility  of  English  prose.  There  is  more  than  a 
touch  of  Euphuism  in  Stevenson;  he  was  never 
insincere,  but  he  was  consciously  fine.  Many  have 
swallowed  without  salt  his  statement  that  he  learned 
to  write  by  imitation;  that  by  the  "sedulous  ape" 
method,  employed  with  unwearying  study  of  great 
models,  he  himself  became  a  successful  author. 
Men  of  genius  are  never  to  be  trusted  when  they 
discuss  the  origin  and  development  of  their  powers ; 
it  is  no  more  to  be  believed  that  Stevenson  learned 
to  be  a  great  writer  by  imitating  Browne,  than  that 
The  Raven  really  reached  its  perfection  in  the  man- 
ner so  minutely  described  by  Poe.  The  faithful 
practice  of  composition  will  doubtless  help  any 
ambitious  young  man  or  woman.  But  Stevensons 
are  not  made  in  that  fashion.  If  they  were,  anyone 
with  plenty  of  time  and  patience  could  become  a 
great  author.  This  "ape"  remark  by  Stevenson 
has  had  one  interesting  effect ;  if  he  imitated  others, 
he  has  been  strenuously  imitated  himself.  Probably 
no  recent  English  writer  has  been  more  constantly 
employed  for  rhetorical  purposes,  and  there  is  none 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

whose  influence  on  style  is  more  evident  in  the  work 
of  contemporary  aspirants  in  fiction. 

The  stories  of  Stevenson  exhibit  a  double  union, 
as  admirable  as  it  is  rare.  They  exhibit  the  union 
of  splendid  material  with  the  most  delicate  skill 
in  language;  and  they  exhibit  the  union  of  thrilling 
events  with  a  remarkable  power  of  psychological 
analysis.  Every  thoughtful  reader  has  noticed 
these  combinations;  but  we  som.etimes  forget  that 
Silver,  Alan,  Henry,  and  the  Master  are  just  as  fine 
examples  of  character-portrayal  as  can  be  found  in 
the  works  of  Henry  James.  It  is  from  this  point 
of  view  that  Stevenson  is  so  vastly  superior  to  Feni- 
more  Cooper;  just  as  in  literary  style  he  so  far  sur- 
passes Scott.  Treasure  Island  is  much  better  than 
The  Red  Rover  or  The  Pirate;  its  author  actually 
beat  Scott  and  Cooper  at  their  own  game.  With 
the  exception  of  Henry  Esmond,  Stevenson  may 
perhaps  be  said  to  have  written  the  best  romances 
in  the  English  language;  the  undoubted  inferiority 
of  any  of  his  books  to  that  masterpiece  would  make 
an  interesting  subject  for  reflexion. 

The  one  thing  in  which  Scott  really  excelled 
Stevenson  was  in  the  depiction  of  women.  The 
latter  has  given  us  no  Diana  Vernon  or  Jeannie 
Deans.  For  the  most  part,  Stevenson's  romances 
are  Paradise  before  the  creation  of  Eve.  The  snake 
is  there,  but  not  the  woman.     This  extraordinary 


ROBERT   LOUIS   STEVENSON 

absence  of  sex-interest  is  a  notable  feature,  and  many 
have  been  the  reasons  assigned  for  it.  If  he  had  not 
tried  at  all,  we  should  be  safe  in  saying  that,  like 
a  small  boy,  he  felt  that  girls  were  in  the  way,  and 
he  did  not  want  them  mussing  up  his  games.  There 
is  perhaps  some  truth  in  this;  for  the  presence  of 
a  girl  might  have  ruined  Treasure  Island,  as  it 
ruined  the  Sea  Wolf.  Her  fuss  and  feathers  bring 
in  all  sorts  of  bothersome  problems  to  distract  a 
novelist,  bent  on  having  a  good  time  with  pirates, 
murders,  and  hidden  treasure.  Unfortunately  for 
the  complete  satisfaction  of  this  explanation,  Steven- 
son wrote  Prince  Otto,  and  tried  to  draw  a  real  woman. 
The  result  did  not  add  anything  to  his  fame,  and, 
indeed,  the  whole  book  missed  fire.  He  was  un- 
questionably more  successful  in  David  Balfour,  but, 
when  all  is  said,  the  presence  of  women  in  a  few  of 
Stevenson's  romances  is  not  so  impressive  as  their 
absence  in  most.  It  is  only  in  that  unfinished  work. 
Weir  of  Herniiston,  which  gave  every  promise  of 
being  one  of  the  greatest  novels  in  English  literature, 
that  he  seemed  to  have  reached  full  maturity  of 
power  in  dealing  with  the  master  passion.  The  best 
reason  for  Stevenson's  reserve  on  matters  of  sex  was 
probably  his  delicacy;  he  did  not  wish  to  represent 
this  particular  animal  impulse  with  the  same  vivid 
reaHty  he  pictured  avarice,  ambition,  courage, 
cowardice,  and  pride;    and  thus  hampered  by  con- 

183 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

science,  he  thought  it  best  in  the  main  to  omit  it 
altogether.  At  least,  this  is  the  way  he  felt  about  it, 
as  we  may  learn  from  the  Vailima  Letters:  — 

"This  is  a  poison  bad  world  for  the  romancer,  this  Anglo- 
Saxon  world ;  I  usually  get  out  of  it  by  not  having  any  women 
in  it  at  all."     (February,  1892.) 

"I  am  afraid  my  touch  is  a  little  broad  in  a  love  story; 
I  can't  mean  one  thing  and  write  another.  As  for  women, 
I  am  no  more  in  any  fear  of  them ;  I  can  do  a  sort  all  right ; 
age  makes  me  less  afraid  of  a  petticoat,  but  I  am  a  little  in 
fear  of  grossness.  However,  this  David  Balfour's  love  affair, 
that's  all  right  —  might  be  read  out  to  a  mothers'  meeting  — 
or  a  daughters'  meeting.  The  difficulty  in  a  love  yarn,  which 
dwells  at  all  on  love,  is  the  dwelling  on  one  string;  it  is  mani- 
fold, I  grant,  but  the  root  fact  is  there  unchanged,  and  the 
sentiment  being  very  intense,  and  already  very  much  handled 
in  letters,  positively  calls  for  a  little  pawing  and  gracing. 
With  a  writer  of  my  prosaic  literalness  and  pertinency  of  point 
of  view,  this  all  shoves  toward  grossness  —  positively  even 
towards  the  far  more  damnable  closeness.  This  has  kept 
me  off  the  sentiment  hitherto,  and  now  I  am  to  try:  Lord! 
Of  course  Meredith  can  do  it,  and  so  could  Shakespeare; 
but  with  all  my  romance,  I  am  a  realist  and  a  prosaist,  and 
a  most  fanatical  lover  of  plain  physical  sensations  plainly 
and  expressly  rendered;  hence  my  perils.  To  do  love  in 
the  same  spirit  as  I  did  (for  instance)  D.  Balfour's  fatigue  in 
the  heather;  my  dear  sir,  there  were  grossness  —  ready 
made!     And  hence,  how  to  sugar?"     (May,  1892.) 

On  the  whole,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  that  with 
the  omission  of  the  fragment,  Weir  of  Hcrmiston, 
Stevenson's  best  novel  is  his  first  —  Treasure  Island. 
184 


ROBERT   LOUIS   STEVENSON 

He  wrote  this  with  peculiar  zest ;  first  of  all,  in  spite 
of  the  playful  dedication,  to  please  himself;  second, 
to  see  if  the  pubhc  appetite  for  Romance  could  once 
more  be  stimulated.  He  never  did  anything  later 
quite  so  off-hand,  quite  so  spontaneous.  His  maturer 
books,  briUiant  as  they  are,  lack  the  peculiar  bright- 
ness of  Treasure  Island.  It  has  more  unity  than 
The  Master  of  Ballantrce ;  and  it  has  a  greater  group 
of  characters  than  Kidnapped. 

Stevenson  told  this  story  in  the  first  person,  but, 
by  a  clever  device,  he  avoided  the  chief  difficulty  of 
that  method  of  narration.  The  speaker  is  not  one 
of  the  principal  characters  in  the  story,  though  he 
shares  in  the  most  thrilling  adventures.  We  thus 
have  all  the  advantages  of  direct  discourse,  all  the 
gain  in  reality  —  without  a  hint  as  to  what  will  be 
the  fate  of  the  leading  actors.  Stevenson  said,  in 
one  of  the  Vailima  Letters,  that  first-person  tales  were 
more  in  accord  with  his  temperament.  The  purely 
objective  character  of  this  novel  is  noteworthy,  and 
entirely  proper,  coming  from  a  perfectly  normal  boy. 
The  Essays  show  that  Stevenson  could  be  sufficiently 
introspective  if  he  chose,  and  Dr.  Jekyll  is  really  an 
introspective  novel,  differing  in  every  way  from 
Treasure  Island.  But  here  we  have  romantic  ad- 
ventures seen  through  the  fresh  eyes  of  boyhood, 
producing  their  unconscious  reflex  action  on  the 
soul  of  the  narrator,  who  daily  grows  in  courage  and 
185 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

self-reliance  by  grappling  with  danger.  In  Henry 
James's  fine  and  penetrating  essay  on  Stevenson, 
he  says  of  this  book,  "  \Vliat  we  see  in  it  is  not  only 
the  ideal  fable,  but  the  young  reader  himself  and  his 
state  of  mind :  we  seem  to  read  it  over  his  shoulder, 
with  an  arm  around  his  neck."  This  particular 
remark  has  been  much  praised;  but  it  seems  in  a 
way  to  half-apologise  for  a  man's  interest  in  the 
story,  and  to  explain  it  like  an  affectionate  uncle's 
sympathetic  interest  in  a  child's  game,  who  mainly 
enjoys  the  child's  enthusiasm.  Now  I  venture  to 
say  that  no  one  can  any  more  outgrow  Treasure 
Island  than  he  can  outgrow  Robinson  Crusoe.  The 
events  in  the  story  delight  children ;  but  it  is  a  book 
that  in  mature  years  can  be  read  and  reread  with 
ever  increasing  satisfaction  and  profit.  No  one  needs 
to  regret  or  to  explain  his  interest  in  this  novel;  it 
is  nothing  to  be  sorry  for,  nor  docs  it  indicate  a  low 
order  of  literary  taste.  Many  serious  persons  have 
felt  somewhat  alarmed  by  their  pleasure  in  reading 
Treasure  Island,  and  have  hesitated  to  assign  it  a 
high  place  in  fiction.  Some  have  said  that,  after 
all,  it  is  only  a  pirate  story,  differing  from  the  Sleuths 
and  Harkaways  merely  in  being  better  written. 
But  this  is  exactly  the  point,  and  a  very  important 
point,  in  criticism.  In  art,  the  subject  is  of  com- 
paratively little  importance,  whereas  the  treatment 
is  the  absolute  distinguishing  feature.  To  insist 
i86 


ROBERT   LOUIS   STEVENSON 

that  there  is  little  difference  between  Treasure 
Island  and  any  cheap  tale  of  blood-and-thunder,  is 
equivalent  to  saying  that  there  is  little  difference 
between  the  Sistine  Madonna  and  a  cottage  chromo 
of  the  Virgin. 

Pew  is  a  fearsome  personage,  and  a  notable  ex- 
ample of  the  triumph  of  mind  over  the  most  serious 
of  all  physical  disabilities.  Theoretically,  it  seems 
strange  that  able-bodied  individuals  should  be  afraid 
of  a  man  who  is  stone  blind.  But  the  appearance 
of  Pew  is  enough  to  make  anybody  take  to  his  heels. 
He  is  the  very  essence  of  authority  and  leadership. 
The  tap-tapping  of  his  stick  in  the  moonlight  makes 
one's  blood  run  cold.  We  are  apt  to  think  of  blind 
people  as  gentle,  sweet,  pure,  and  holy;  made  sub- 
missive and  tender  by  misfortune,  dependent  on 
the  kindness  of  others.  Old  Pew  has  lost  his  eyes, 
but  not  his  nerve.  To  sec  so  black-hearted  and 
unscrupulous  a  villain,  his  sight  taken  away  as  it 
were  by  the  hand  of  God,  and  yet  intent  only  on 
desperate  wickedness,  upsets  the  moral  order;  he 
becomes  an  uncanny  monstrosity;  he  takes  on  the 
hue  of  a  supernatural  fiend.  John  Silver  has  lost 
a  leg,  but  he  circumvents  others  by  the  speed  of 
his  mind;  amazingly  quick  in  perception,  a  most 
astute  politician,  arrested  from  no  treachery  or  mur- 
der by  any  moral  principle  or  touch  of  pity,  he  has 
the  dark  splendour  of  unlhnching  depravity.     He 

187 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

is  no  Laodicean.  He  never  lets  I  dare  not  wait  upon 
I  would.  His  course  seems  fickle  and  changeable, 
but  he  is  really  steering  steadily  by  the  compass  of 
self-interest.  He  can  be  witty,  affectionate,  sympa- 
thetic, friendly,  submissive,  flattering,  and  also  a 
devihsh  beast.  He  is  the  very  chameleon  of  crime. 
Stevenson  simply  had  not  the  heart  to  kill  so  con- 
summate an  artist  in  villainy.  It  was  no  mean 
achievement  to  create  two  heroes  so  sinister  as  Pew 
and  Silver,  while  depriving  one  of  his  sight  and  the 
other  of  a  leg.  One  wearies  of  the  common  run  of 
romances,  where  the  chief  character  is  a  man  of 
colossal  size  and  beautifully  proportioned,  so  that 
his  victories  over  various  rascals  are  really  only 
athletic  records.  In  Treasure  Island,  the  emphasis 
is  laid  in  the  right  place,  whence  leadership  comes; 
everybody  is  afraid  of  Long  John,  and  nobody 
minds  Ben  Gunn,  dead  or  ahve.^ 

There  are  scenes  in  this  story,  presented  with 
such  dramatic  power,  and  with  such  astonishing 
feUcity  of  diction,  that,  once  read,  they  can  never 
pass  from  the  reader's  mind.  The  expression  in 
Silver's  face,  as  he  talks  with  Tom  in  the  marsh, 
first   ingratiatingly   friendly,   then   suspicious,    then 

'  It  is  interesting  to  remember  that  the  crippled  poet,  W.  E. 
Henley,  was  the  original  of  Silver.  Writing  to  Henley,  May,  1883, 
Stevenson  said,  "  I  will  now  make  a  confession.  It  was  the  sight 
of  your  maimed  strength  and  masterfulness  that  begot  John 
Silver." 

x88 


ROBERT   LOUIS   STEVENSON 

as  implacable  as  malignant  fate.  The  hurling  of 
the  crutch;  the  two  terrific  stabs  of  the  knife.  "I 
could  hear  him  pant  aloud  as  he  struck  the  blows." 
The  boy's  struggle  on  the  schooner  with  Israel 
Hands;  the  awful  moment  in  the  little  boat,  while 
Flint's  gunner  is  training  the  "long  nine"  on  her, 
and  the  passengers  can  do  nothing  but  await  the 
result  of  the  enemy's  skill ;  the  death  of  the  faithful 
old  servant,  Redruth,  who  said  he  thought  some- 
body might  read  a  prayer. 

Much  has  been  written  in  both  prose  and  verse 
of  the  fascination  of  Stevenson's  personality.  He  was 
so  difTercnt  in  different  moods  that  no  two  of  his 
friends  have  ever  agreed  as  to  what  manner  of  man  he 
really  was.  As  he  chose  to  express  his  genius  mainly 
in  objective  romances,  future  generations  will  find 
in  the  majority  of  his  works  no  hint  as  to  the  char- 
acter of  the  author.  From  this  point  of  view,  com- 
pare for  a  moment  The  Master  of  Ballantrce  with 
Joseph  Vance!  But  fortunately,  Stevenson  elected 
to  write  personal  essays;  and  still  more  fortunately, 
hundreds  of  his  most  intimate  letters  are  preserved 
in  type.  Some  think  that  these  Letters  form  his 
greatest  literary  work,  and  that  they  will  outlast 
his  novels,  plays,  poems,  and  essays.  For  they  will 
have  a  profound  interest  long  after  the  last  person 
who  saw  Stevenson  on  earth  has  passed  away. 
They  are  the  revelation  of  a  man  even  more  inter- 

189 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

esting  than  any  of  the  wonderful  characters  he 
created;  they  show  that  men  Hke  Philip  Sidney 
were  as  possible  in  the  nineteenth  century  as  in  the 
brilliant  age  of  Elizabeth.  The  life  of  Stevenson  has 
added  immensely  to  our  happiness  and  enjoyment 
of  the  world,  and  no  literary  figure  in  recent  times 
had  more  radiance  and  wholesome  charm.  His 
optimism  was  based  on  a  chronic  experience  of 
physical  pain  and  weakness;  to  him  it  was  a  good 
world,  and  he  made  it  distinctly  better  by  his  pres- 
ence. He  was  a  combination  of  the  Bohemian 
and  the  Covenanter;  he  had  all  the  graces  of  one, 
and  the  bed-rock  moral  earnestness  of  the  other. 
"The  world  must  return  some  day  to  the  word 
'duty,'"  said  he,  "and  be  done  with  the  word 're- 
ward.' "  He  was  the  incarnation  of  the  happy 
union  of  virtue  and  vivacity. 


X90 


X 

MRS.   HUMPHRY  WARD 

It  is  high  time  that  somebody  spoke  out  his  mind 
about  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward.  Her  prodigious  vogue 
is  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  literary  phenomena 
of  our  day.  A  roar  of  approval  greets  the  publica- 
tion of  every  new  novel  from  her  active  pen,  and  it 
is  almost  pathetic  to  contemplate  the  reverent  awe 
of  her  army  of  worshippers  when  they  behold  the 
solemn  announcement  that  she  is  "collecting  mate- 
rial "  for  another  masterpiece.  Even  professional 
reviewers  lose  all  sense  of  proportion  when  they 
discuss  her  books,  and  their  so-called  criticisms 
sound  like  pubhshers'  advertisements.  Sceptics 
are  warned  to  remain  silent,  lest  they  become  un- 
pleasantly conspicuous.  WTien  Lady  Rose's  Daugh- 
ter appeared,  the  critic  of  a  great  metropolitan  daily 
remarked  that  whoever  did  not  immediately  recognise 
the  work  as  a  masterpiece  thereby  proclaimed  him- 
self as  a  person  incapable  of  judgement,  taste,  and 
appreciation.  This  is  a  fair  example  of  the  attitude 
taken  by  thousands  of  her  readers,  and  it  is  this 

191 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

attitude,  rather  than  the  value  of  her  work,  that  we 
must,  first  of  all,  consider. 

In  the  year  1905  an  entirely  respectable  journal 
said  of  Mrs.  Ward,  "There  is  no  more  interesting 
and  important  figure  in  the  Hterary  world  to-day." 
In  comparing  this  superlative  with  the  actual  state 
of  affairs,  we  find  that  we  were  asked  to  believe  that 
Mrs.  Ward  was  a  literary  personage  not  second  in 
importance  to  Tolstoi,  Ibsen,  Bjomson,  Heyse, 
Sudermann,  Hauptmann,  Anatole  France,  Jules 
Lemaitre,  Rostand,  Swinburne,  Thomas  Hardy, 
Meredith,  Kipling,  and  Alark  Twain.  At  about 
the  same  time  a  work  appeared  intended  as  a  text- 
book for  the  young,  which  declared  Mrs.  Ward  to 
be  "the  greatest  living  writer  of  fiction  in  English 
literature,"  and  misspelled  her  name  —  an  excellent 
illustration  of  carelessness  in  adjectives  with  in- 
accuracy in  facts.  Over  and  over  again  we  have 
heard  the  statement  that  the  "mantle"  of  George 
Eliot  has  fallen  on  Mrs.  Ward.  Is  it  really  true 
that  her  stories  are  equal  in  value  to  Adam  Bede, 
The  Mill  on  the  Floss,  and  Middlemarch? 

The  object  of  this  essay  is  not  primarily  to  attack 
a  dignified  and  successful  author;  it  is  rather  to 
enquire,  in  a  proper  spirit  of  humility,  and  with  a 
full  realisation  of  the  danger  incurred,  whether  or 
not  the  actual  outi)ut  justifies  so  enormous  a  repu- 
tation. For  in  some  respects  I  bcHcve  the  vogue 
192 


MRS.   HUMPHRY   WARD 

of  Mrs.  Ward  to  be  more  unfortunate  than  the 
vogue  of  the  late  lamented  Duchess,  of  Laura  Jean 
Libbey,  of  Mrs.  E.  D.  E.  N.  Southworth,  of  Marie 
Corelli,  and  of  Hall  Cainc.  When  we  are  asked  to 
note  that  300,000  copies  of  the  latest  novel  by  any 
of  these  have  been  sold  before  the  book  is  published, 
there  is  no  cause  for  alarm.  We  know  perfectly 
well  what  that  means.  It  is  what  is  called  a  "busi- 
ness proposition";  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  litera- 
ture. It  simply  proves  that  it  is  possible  to  make 
as  splendid  a  fortune  out  of  the  trade  of  book-making, 
and  by  equally  respectable  methods,  as  is  made 
in  other  legitimate  avenues  of  business.  But  the 
case  is  quite  different  with  Mrs.  Ward.  Whatever 
she  is,  she  is  not  vulgar,  sensational,  or  cheap; 
she  has  never  made  the  least  compromise  with  her 
moral  ideals,  nor  has  she  ever  attempted  to  play 
to  the  gallery.  Her  constituency  is  made  up  largely 
of  serious-minded,  highly  respectable  people,  who 
live  in  good  homes,  w^ho  are  fairly  well  read,  and 
who  ought  to  know  the  difference  between  ordinary 
and  extraordinary  literature.  Her  books  have  had 
a  bad  effect  in  blurring  this  distinction  in  the  popular 
mind ;  for  while  she  has  never  written  a  positively 
bad  book,  —  with  the  possible  exception  of  Bessie 
Costrell,  —  I  feel  confident  that  she  has  never 
written  supremely  well;  that,  compared  with  the 
great  masters  of  fiction,  she  becomes  immediately 
o  193 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

insignificant.  If  there  ever  was  a  successful  writer 
whose  work  shows  industry  and  talent  rather  than 
genius,  that  writer  is  Mrs.  Ward.  If  there  ever 
was  a  successful  writer  whose  work  is  ordinary 
rather  than  extraordinary,  it  is  Mrs.  Ward. 

To  those  of  us  who  delight  in  getting  some  enjoy- 
ment even  out  of  the  most  depressing  facts,  the  growth 
of  Mrs.  Ward's  reputation  has  its  humorous  aspect. 
The  same  individuals  (mostly  feminine)  who  in 
1888  read  Robert  Elsmere  with  dismay,  who  thought 
the  sale  of  the  work  should  be  prohibited,  and  the 
copies  already  purchased  removed  from  circulating 
libraries,  are  the  very  same  ones  who  now  worship 
what  they  once  denounced.  She  was  then  regarded 
as  a  destroyer  of  Christian  faith.  Well,  if  she  was 
Satan  then,  she  is  Satan  still  (one  Western  clergy- 
man, in  advocating  at  that  time  the  suppression  of 
the  work,  said  he  believed  in  hitting  the  devil  right 
between  the  eyes).  She  has  given  no  sign  of  re- 
cantation, or  even  of  penitence.  I  remember  one 
fond  mother,  who,  fearful  of  the  effect  of  the  book 
on  her  daughter's  growing  mind,  marked  all  the 
worst  passages,  and  then  told  Alice  she  might  read 
it,  provided  she  skipped  all  the  blazed  places !  That 
indicated  not  only  a  fine  literary  sense,  but  a  remark- 
able knowledge  of  human  nature.  I  wonder  what 
the  poor  girl  did  when  she  came  to  the  danger  signals  ! 
And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  how  valuable  or  vital  would 
194 


MRS.   HUMPHRY   WARD 

a  Christian  faith  be  that  could  be  destroyed  by  the 
perusal  of  Robert  Elsmere  ?  It  is  almost  difTicult 
now  to  bring  to  distinct  recollection  the  tremendous 
excitement  caused  by  Mrs.  Ward's  first  successful 
novel,  for  it  is  a  long  time  since  I  heard  its  name 
mentioned.  The  last  public  notice  of  it  that  I  can 
recall  was  a  large  sign  which  appeared  some  fifteen 
years  ago  in  a  New  Haven  apothecary's  window  to 
the  effect  that  one  copy  of  Robert  Elsmere  would  be 
presented  free  to  each  purchaser  of  a  cake  of  soap ! 
Although  Robert  Elsmere  was  an  immediate  and 
prodigious  success,  and  made  it  certain  that  what- 
ever its  author  chose  to  write  next  would  be  eagerly 
bought,  it  is  wholly  untrue  to  say  that  her  subse- 
quent novels  have  depended  in  any  way  on  Elsmere 
for  their  reputation.  There  are  many  instances 
in  professional  literary  careers  where  one  immensely 
successful  book  —  Lorna  Doone,  for  example  — 
has  floated  a  long  succession  of  works  that  could  not 
of  themselves  stay  above  water;  many  an  author  has 
succeeded  in  attaching  a  life-preserver  to  literary 
children  who  cannot  swim.  Far  otherwise  is  the 
case  with  Mrs.  Ward.  It  is  probable  that  over 
half  the  readers  of  Diana  Mallory  have  never 
seen  a  copy  of  Robert  Elsmere,  for  which,  incidentally, 
they  are  to  be  congratulated.  But  many  of  us  can 
easily  recollect  with  what  intense  eagerness  the 
novel   that   followed   that   sensation   was   awaited. 

195 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

Every  one  wondered  if  it  would  be  equally  good; 
and  many  confidently  predicted  that  she  had  shot 
her  bolt.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  not  only  was  David 
Grieve  a  better  novel  than  Robert  Elsmere,  but,  in 
my  judgement,  it  is  the  best  book  its  author  has  ever 
written.  Oscar  Wilde  said  that  Robert  Elsmere 
was  Literature  and  Dogma  with  the  literature  left 
out.  Now,  David  Grieve  has  no  dogma  at  all,  but 
in  a  certain  sense  it  does  belong  to  literature.  It 
has  some  actual  dynamic  quality.  The  character  of 
David,  and  its  development  in  a  strange  en\ironment, 
are  well  analysed;  and  altogether  the  best  thing  in 
the  work,  taken  as  a  whole,  is  the  perspective.  It 
is  a  difficult  thing  to  follow  a  character  from  child- 
hood up,  within  the  pages  of  one  volume,  and  have 
anything  like  the  proper  perspective.  It  requires 
for  one  thing,  hard,  painstaking  industry ;  but  Mrs. 
Ward  has  never  been  afraid  of  work.  She  cannot 
be  accused  of  laziness  or  carelessness.  The  ending 
of  this  book  is,  of  course,  weak,  like  the  conclusion 
of  all  her  books,  for  she  has  never  learned  the  fine 
art  of  saying  farewell,  either  to  her  characters  or  to 
the  reader. 

It  was  in  the  year  1894  —  a  year  made  memorable 
by  the  appearance  of  Trilby,  the  Prisoner  of  Zenda, 
The  Jungle  Book,  Lord  Ormont  and  his  Aminta, 
Esther  Waters,  and  other  notable  novels  —  that  Mrs. 
Ward  greatly  increased  her  reputation  and  widened 
196 


MRS.   HUMPHRY  WARD 

her  circle  of  readers  by  the  pubUcation  of  Marcella. 
Here  she  gave  us  a  pohlical-didactic-realistic  novel, 
which  she  has  continued  to  publish  steadily  ever 
since  under  different  titles.  It  was  gravely  announced 
that  this  new  book  would  deal  with  socialism  and 
the  labour  question.  Many  readers,  who  felt  that 
she  had  said  the  last  word  on  agnosticism  in  Elsmere, 
now  looked  forward  with  reverent  anticipation  not 
only  to  the  final  solution  of  socialistic  problems,  but 
to  some  coherent  arrangement  of  their  own  vague 
and  confused  ideas.  Naturally,  they  got  just  what 
they  deserved  —  a  voluminous  statement  of  various 
aspects  of  the  problem,  with  no  solution  at  all.  It 
is  curious  how  many  persons  suppose  that  their 
favourite  author  or  orator  has  done  something  tow- 
ard settling  questions,  when,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
all  he  has  done  is  to  state  them,  and  then  state  them 
again.  This  is  especially  true  of  philosophical 
and  metaphysical  difficulties.  Think  how  eagerly 
readers  took  up  Professor  James's  exceedingly  clever 
book  on  Pragmatism,  hoping  at  last  to  find  rest  in 
some  definite  principle.  And  if  there  ever  was  a 
blind  alley  in  philosophy,  it  is  Pragmatism  —  the 
very  essence  of  agnosticism. 

Now,  Marcella,  as  a  document,  is  both  radical 
and  reactionary.  There  is  an  immense  amount  of 
radical  talk;  but  the  heroine's  schemes  fail,  the 
Labour  party  is  torn  by  dissension,  Wliarton  proves 

197 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

to  be  a  scoundrel,  and  the  rebel  Marcella  marries 
a  respectable  nobleman.  There  is  not  a  single  page 
in  the  book,  with  all  its  wilderness  of  words,  that 
can  be  said  to  be  in  any  sense  a  serious  contribution 
to  the  greatest  of  all  purely  political  problems. 
And,  as  a  work  of  art,  it  is  painfully  limited;  but 
since  it  has  the  same  virtues  and  defects  of  all  her 
subsequent  literary  output,  we  may  consider  what 
these  virtues  and  defects  are. 

In  the  first  place,  Mrs.  Ward  is  totally  lacking  in 
one  almost  fundamental  quality  of  the  great  novelist 
—  a  keen  sense  of  humour.  Who  are  the  English 
novelists  of  the  first  class  ?  They  are  Defoe,  Richard- 
son, Fielding,  Scott,  Jane  Austen,  Dickens,  Thack- 
eray, George  Eliot,  Stevenson,  and  perhaps  Hardy. 
Every  one  of  these  shows  humour  enough  and  to 
spare,  with  the  single  exception  of  Richardson,  and 
he  atoned  for  the  deficiency  by  a  terrible  intensity 
that  has  seldom,  if  ever,  been  equalled  in  English 
fiction.  Now,  the  absence  of  humour  in  a  book 
is  not  only  a  positive  loss  to  the  reader,  in  that  it 
robs  him  of  the  fun  which  is  an  essential  part  of  the 
true  history  of  any  human  life,  and  thereby  makes 
the  history  to  that  extent  inaccurate  and  unreal, 
but  the  writer  who  has  no  humour  seldom  gets  the 
right  point  of  view.  There  is  infinitely  more  in  the 
tem[)cramcnt  of  the  humorist  than  mere  laughter. 
Just  as  the  poet  sees  life  through  the  medium  of 
198 


MRS.   HUMPHRY   WARD 

a  splendid  imagination,  so  the  humorist  has  the 
almost  infallible  guide  of  sympathy.  The  humorist 
sees  life  in  a  large,  tolerant,  kindly  way;  he  knows 
that  life  is  a  tragi-comedy,  and  he  makes  the  reader 
feel  it  in  that  fashion. 

Again,  the  lack  of  humour  in  a  writer  destroys 
the  sense  of  proportion.  The  humorist  sees  the 
salient  points  —  the  merely  serious  writer  gives  us  a 
mass  of  details.  In  looking  back  over  the  thousands 
of  pages  of  fiction  that  Mrs.  Ward  has  published, 
how  few  great  scenes  stand  out  bright  in  the  memory ! 
The  principle  of  selection  —  so  important  a  part 
of  all  true  art  —  is  conspicuous  only  by  its  absence. 
This  is  one  reason  for  the  sameness  of  her  books. 
All  that  we  can  remember  is  an  immense  number 
of  social  functions  and  an  immense  amount  of  politi- 
cal gossip  —  a  long,  sad  level  of  mediocrity.  This 
perhaps  helps  to  explain  why  German  fiction  is  so 
markedly  inferior  to  the  French.  The  German, 
in  his  scientific  endeavour  to  get  in  the  whole  of  life, 
gives  us  a  mass  of  unrelated  detail.  A  French 
writer  by  a  few  phrases  makes  us  see  a  character 
more  clearly  than  a  German  presents  him  after 
many  painful  pages  of  wearisome  description. 

Mrs.  Ward  is  not  too  much  in  earnest  in  following 

her  ideals  of  art ;    no  one  can  be.     But  she  is  too 

sadly  serious.     There  is  a  mental  tension  in  her 

books,   like   the   tension   of  overwork   and   mental 

199 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

exhaustion,  like  the  tension  of  overwrought  nerves; 
her  books  are,  in  fact,  filled  with  tired  and  over- 
worked men  and  women,  jaded  and  gone  stale. 
How  many  of  her  characters  seem  to  need  a  change  — • 
what  they  want  is  rest  and  sleep!  Many  of  them 
ought  to  be  in  a  sanatorium. 

Her  books  are  devoid  of  charm.  One  does  not 
have  to  compare  her  with  the  great  masters  to  feel 
this  deficiency;  it  would  not  be  fair  to  compare 
her  with  Thackeray.  But  if  we  select  among  all  the 
noveHsts  of  real  distinction  the  one  whom,  perhaps, 
she  most  closely  approaches,  —  Anthony  Trollope, 
—  the  enormous  distance  between  Diana  Mallory 
and  Framley  Parsonage  is  instantly  manifest.  We 
think  of  Trollope  with  a  glow  of  reminiscent  delight ; 
but  although  Trollope  and  Mrs.  Ward  talk  endlessly 
on  much  the  same  range  of  subject-matter,  how 
far  apart  they  really  are !  Mrs.  Ward's  books  are 
crammed  with  politicians  and  clergymen,  who  keep 
the  patient  reader  informed  on  modern  aspects  of 
political  and  religious  thought;  but  the  difficulty 
is  that  they  substitute  phrases  for  ideas.  Mrs. 
Ward  knows  all  the  political  and  religious  cant  of 
the  day;  she  is  familiar  with  the  catch-words  that 
divide  men  into  hostile  camj)s;  but  in  all  these  dreary 
pages  of  serious  conversation  there  is  no  real  illumi- 
nation. She  completely  lacks  the  art  that  Trollope 
possessed,    of   making   ordinary  people   attractive. 


MRS.    HUMPHRY   WARD 

But  to  find  out  the  real  distance  that  separates  her 
productions  from  literature,  one  should  read,  let  us 
say,  The  Marriage  of  William  Ashe  and  then  take 
up  Pride  and  Prejudice.  The  novels  of  Mrs.  Ward 
bear  about  the  same  relation  to  first-class  fiction 
that  maps  and  atlases  bear  to  great  paintings. 

This  lack  of  charm  that  I  always  feel  in  reading 
Airs.  Ward's  books  (and  I  have  read  them  all)  is 
owing  not  merely  to  the  lack  of  humour.  It  is 
partly  due  to  what  seems  to  be  an  almost  total 
absence  of  freshness,  spontaneity,  and  originality. 
Mrs.  Ward  works  like  a  well-trained  and  high-class 
graduate  student,  who  is  engaged  in  the  preparation 
of  a  doctor's  thesis.  Her  discussions  of  socialism, 
her  scenes  in  the  House  of  Commons  and  on  the 
Terrace,  her  excursions  to  Italy,  her  references 
to  political  history,  her  remarks  on  the  army,  her 
disquisitions  on  theology,  her  pictures  of  campaign 
riots,  her  studies  of  defective  drainage,  her  repre- 
sentations of  the  labouring  classes,  —  all  these  are 
"worked  up"  in  a  scholarly  and  scientific  manner; 
there  is  the  modern  passion  for  accuracy,  there  is  the 
German  completeness  of  detail,  —  there  is,  in  fact, 
everything  except  the  breath  of  life.  She  works 
in  the  descriptive  manner,  from  the  outside  in  — 
not  in  the  inspired  manner  which  goes  with  imagi- 
nation, sympathy,  and  genius.  She  is  not  only  a 
student,  she  is  a  journalist;    she  is  a  special  corre- 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

spondent  on  politics  and  theology;  but  she  is  not 
a  creative  writer.  For  she  has  the  critical,  not  the 
creative,  temperament. 

The  monotonous  sameness  of  her  books,  which 
has  been  mentioned  above,  is  largely  owing  to  the 
sameness  of  her  characters.  She  changes  the  frames, 
but  not  the  portraits.  First  of  all,  in  almost  any  of 
her  books  we  are  sure  to  meet  the  studious,  intel- 
lectual young  man.  He  always  has  a  special  library 
on  some  particular  subject,  with  the  books  all  anno- 
tated. One  wearies  of  this  perpetual  character's 
perpetual  library,  crowded,  as  it  always  is,  with 
the  latest  French  and  German  monographs.  Her 
heroes  smell  of  books  and  dusty  dissertations,  and 
the  conversations  of  these  heroes  are  plentifully 
lacking  in  native  wit  and  originality  —  they  are  the 
mere  echoes  of  their  reading.  Let  us  pass  in  review 
a  few  of  these  serious  students  —  Robert  Elsmere, 
Langham,  Aldous  Reyburn  (who  changes  into  Lord 
Maxwell,  but  who  remains  a  prig),  the  melancholy 
Hclbcck,  the  insufferable  IManisty,  Jacob  Dclaficld, 
William  Ashe,  Oliver  IMarsham  —  all,  all  essentially 
the  same,  tiresome,  dull,  heaxy  men  —  what  a 
pity  they  were  not  intended  as  satires !  Second,  as 
a  foil  to  this  man,  we  have  the  Byronic,  clever,  ro- 
mantic, sentimental,  insincere  man  —  who  always 
degenerates  or  dies  in  a  manner  that  exalts  the  dull 
and    superior    virtues   of   his    antagonist.     Such   a 


MRS.    HUMPHRY   WARD 

man  is  WTiarton,  or  Sir  George  Tressady,  or  Captain 
Wark^vo^th,  or  Cliffe  —  they  have  different  names 
in  different  novels,  but  they  are  the  same  character. 
Curiously  enough,  the  only  convincing  men  that 
appear  in  her  pages  are  old  men  —  men  like  Lord 
Maxwell  or  Sir  James  Chide.  In  portraying  this 
type  she  achieves  success. 

What  shall  we  say  of  her  heroines  ?  They  have  the 
same  suspicious  resemblance  so  characteristic  of 
her  heroes ;  they  are  represented  as  physically  beauti- 
ful, intensely  eager  for  morality  and  justice,  with  an 
extraordinary  fund  of  information,  and  an  almost 
insane  desire  to  impart  it.  Her  heroine  is  likely  to 
be  or  to  become  a  power  in  poHtics ;  even  at  a  tender 
age  she  rules  society  by  the  brilliancy  of  her  conversa- 
tion ;  in  a  crowded  drawing-room  the  Prime  Minister 
hangs  upon  her  words;  diplomats  are  amazed  at 
her  intimate  knowledge  of  foreign  relations,  and  of 
the  resources  of  the  British  Empire;  and  she  can 
entertain  a  whole  ring  of  statesmen  and  publicists 
by  gi^■ing  to  each  exactly  the  right  word  at  the  right 
moment.  Men  who  are  making  history  come  to 
her  not  only  for  inspiration  but  for  guidance,  for 
she  can  discourse  fluently  on  all  phases  of  the  trou- 
blesome labour  question.  And  yet,  if  we  may  judge 
of  this  marvellous  creature  not  by  the  attitude  of 
the  other  characters  in  the  book,  but  by  the  actual 
words  that  fall  from  her  lips,  we  are  renflnded  of 

203 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

the  woman  whom  Herbert  Spencer's  friends  selected 
as  his  potential  spouse.  They  shut  him  up  with 
her,  and  awaited  the  result  with  eagerness,  for  they 
told  him  she  had  a  great  mind;  but  on  emerging 
from  the  trial  inter\iew  Spencer  remarked  that 
she  would  not  do  at  all:  "The  young  lady  is,  in 
my  opinion,  too  highly  intellectual;  or,  I  should 
rather  say  —  morbidly  intellectual.  A  small  brain 
in  a  state  of  intense  activity."  Was  there  ever  a 
better  formula  for  Mrs.  Ward's  constantly  recurring 
heroine  ?  Now,  as  a  foil  to  Marcella,  Diana  Mallory, 
and  the  others,  Mrs.  Ward  gives  us  the  frivolous, 
mischief-making,  would-be  brilliant,  and  actually 
vulgar  woman,  who  makes  much  trouble  for  the 
heroine  and  ultimately  more  for  herself  —  the  wife 
of  Sir  George  Tressady,  the  young  upstart  in  Diana 
Mallory,  and  all  the  rest  of  them.  By  the  introduc- 
tion of  these  characters  there  is  an  attempt  to  lend 
colour  to  the  dull  pages  of  the  novels.  These 
women  are  at  heart  adventuresses,  but  they  are  apt 
to  lack  the  courage  of  their  convictions;  instead  of 
being  brilliant  and  terrible,  —  like  the  great  ad- 
venturesses of  fiction,  —  they  are  as  dull  in  sin  as 
their  antagonists  are  dull  in  virtue.  Mrs.  Ward 
cannot  make  them  real;  compare  any  one  of  them 
with  Thackeray's  Beatrix  or  with  Becky  Sharp  — 
to  say  nothing  of  the  long  list  of  sinister  women  in 
French  and  Russian  fiction. 

204 


MRS.   HUMPHRY   WARD 

There  arc  no  "supreme  moments"  in  Mrs.  Ward's 
books;  no  great  dramatic  situations;  she  has  tried 
hard  to  manage  this,  for  she  has  had  repeatedly 
one  eye  on  the  stage.  When  The  Marriage  of 
William  Ashe  and  Lady  Rose's  Daughter  appeared, 
one  could  almost  feel  the  strain  for  dramatic  effect. 
It  was  as  though  she  had  realised  that  her  previous 
books  were  treatises  rather  than  novels,  and  had 
gathered  all  her  energies  together  to  make  a  severe 
effort  for  real  drama.  But,  unfortunately,  the 
scholarly  and  critical  temperament  is  not  primarily 
adapted  for  dramatic  masterpieces.  In  the  endeav- 
our to  recall  thrilling  scenes  in  her  novels,  scenes 
that  brand  themselves  for  ever  on  the  memory,  one 
has  only  to  compare  her  works  with  such  stories 
as  Far  From  the  Madding  Crowd  or  The  Return  of 
the  Native,  and  her  painful  deficiency  is  immediately 
apparent. 

In  view  of  what  I  believe  to  be  the  standard 
mediocrity  of  her  novels,  how  shall  we  account  for 
their  enormous  vogue?  The  fact  is,  whether  we 
like  it  or  not,  that  she  is  one  of  the  most  widely  read 
of  all  living  novelists.  Well,  in  the  first  place,  she 
is  absolutely  respectable  and  safe.  It  is  assuredly 
to  her  credit  that  she  has  never  stooped  for  popularity. 
She  has  never  descended  to  melodrama,  clap-trap, 
or  indecency.  She  is  never  spectacular  and  declam- 
atory like  Marie  CorcUi,  and  she  is  never  morally 

205 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

offensive  like  some  popular  writers  who  might  be 
mentioned.  She  writes  for  a  certain  class  of  readers 
whom  she  thoroughly  understands:  they  are  the 
readers  who  abhor  both  vulgarity  and  pruriency, 
and  who  like  to  enter  vicariously,  as  they  certainly 
do  in  her  novels,  into  the  best  English  society.  In 
her  social  functions  her  readers  can  have  the  pleasure 
of  meeting  prime  ministers,  lords,  and  all  the  dwellers 
in  Mayfair,  and  they  know  that  nothing  will  be  said 
that  is  shocking  or  improper.  Her  books  can  safely 
be  recommended  to  young  people,  and  they  reflect 
the  current  movement  of  English  thought  as  well  as 
could  be  done  by  a  standard  English  re^'iew.  She 
has  a  well-furnished  and  highly  developed  intellect; 
she  is  deeply  read;  she  makes  her  readers  think 
that  they  are  thinking.  She  tries  to  make  up  for 
artistic  deficiencies  by  an  immense  amount  of  in- 
formation. Fifty  years  ago  it  is  probable  that  she 
would  not  have  written  novels  at  all,  but  rather 
thoughtful  and  intellectual  critical  essays,  for  which 
her  mind  is  admirably  fitted.  She  unconsciously 
chose  the  novel  simply  because  the  novel  has  been, 
during  the  last  thirty  years,  the  chief  channel  of 
literary  expression.  But  in  spite  of  her  popularity, 
it  should  never  be  forgotten  that  the  novel  is  an  art- 
form,  not  a  medium  for  doctrinaires. 

Then,  with  her  sure  hand  on  the  pulse  of  the  public, 
she  is  always  intensely  modern,  intensely  contem- 

206 


MRS.   HUMPHRY   WARD 

porary;  again  like  a  well-trained  journalist.  She 
knows  exactly  what  Society  is  talking  about,  for  she 
emphatically  belongs  to  it.  This  is  once  more  a 
reason  why  so  many  people  believe  that  she  holds 
the  key  to  great  problems  of  social  life,  and  that  her 
next  book  will  give  the  solution.  Many  hoped  that 
her  novel  on  America,  carefully  worked  up  during 
her  visit  here,  would  give  the  final  word  on  American 
social  life.  Both  England  and  the  United  States 
were  to  find  out  what  the  word  "  American  "  really 
means, 

Mrs.  Ward  is  an  exceedingly  talented,  scholarly, 
and  thoughtful  woman,  of  lofty  aims  and  actuated 
only  by  noble  motives;  she  is  hungry  for  intellectual 
food,  reading  both  old  texts  and  the  daily  papers  with 
avidity.  She  has  a  highly  trained,  sensitive,  critical 
mind,  —  but  she  is  destitute  of  the  divine  spark  of 
genius.  Her  books  are  the  books  of  to-day,  not  of 
to-morrow;  for  while  the  political  and  religious 
questions  of  to-day  are  of  temporary  interest,  the 
themes  of  the  world's  great  novels  are  what  Richard- 
son called  "love  and  nonsense,  men  and  women" 
—  and  these  are  eternal. 


207 


XI 

RUDYARD    KIPLING 

Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling  is  in  the  anomalous  and 
fortunate  position  of  having  enjoyed  a  prodigious 
reputation  for  twenty  years,  and  being  still  a  young 
man.  Few  writers  in  the  world  to-day  are  better 
known  than  he;  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  and  expected 
that  he  has  before  him  over  thirty  years  of  active 
production.  He  has  not  yet  attained  the  age  of 
forty-five;  but  his  numerous  stories,  novels,  and 
poems  have  reached  the  unquestioned  dignity  of 
"works,"  and  in  uniform  binding  they  make  on  my 
library  shelves  a  formidable  and  gallant  display. 
Foreigners  read  them  in  their  own  tongues;  critical 
essays  in  various  languages  are  steadily  accumulating ; 
and  he  has  received  the  honour  of  being  himself  the 
hero  of  a  strange  French  novel. ^  His  popularity 
with  the  general  mass  of  readers  has  been  sufficient 
to  satisfy  the  wildest  dreams  of  an  author's  ambition ; 
and  his  fame  is,  in  a  way,  officially  sanctioned  by  the 
receipt  of  honorary  degrees  from  McGill  University, 
from  Durham,  from  Oxford,  and  from  Cambridge; 

'  A  curious  and  ironical  Ijook,  Dingley,  by  Tliaraud. 
208 


RUDYARD   KIPLING 

and  in  1907  he  was  given  the  Nobel  Prize,  with  the 
ratifying  applause  of  the  whole  world.  There  is 
no  indication  that  either  the  shouts  of  the  mob  or 
the  hoods  of  Doctorates  have  turned  his  head;  he 
remains  to-day  what  he  always  has  been  —  a  hard, 
conscientious  workman,  trying  to  do  his  best  every 
time. 

Although  Mr.  Kipling  is  British  to  the  core,  there 
is  nothing  insular  about  his  experience;  he  is  as 
much-travelled  as  Ulysses. 

"For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 
Much  have  I  seen  and  Icnown :  cities  of  men, 
And  manners,  climates,  councils,  governments, 
Myself  not  least,  but  honour'd  of  them  all." 

Born  in  India,  educated  at  an  English  school,  cir- 
cumnavigator of  the  globe,  he  is  equally  at  home 
in  the  snows  of  the  Canadian  Rockies,  or  in  the 
fierce  heat  east  of  Suez ;  in  the  fogs  of  the  Channel, 
or  under  the  Southern  Cross  at  Capetown.  Nor  is 
he  a  mere  sojourner  on  the  earth :  he  has  lived  for 
years  in  his  own  house,  in  England,  in  Vermont,  and 
in  India,  and  has  had  abundant  opportunity  to 
compare  the  climate  of  Brattleboro  with  that  of 
Bombay. 

A  bom  joumaHst  and  reporter,  his  publications 

first  saw  the  light  in  ephemeral  Indian  sheets.     In 

the  late  eighties  he  began  to  amuse  himself  with  the 

composition  of  squibs  of  verse,  which  he  printed  in 

p  209 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

the  local  newspaper;  these  became  popular,  and 
were  cited  and  sung  with  enthusiasm.  Emboldened 
by  this  first  taste  of  success,  he  put  together  a 
little  volume  bound  like  a  Government  report;  he 
then  sent  around  reply  post-cards  for  cash  orders, 
in  the  fashion  already  made  famous  by  Walt  Whit- 
man. It  is  needless  to  say  that  copies  of  this  book 
command  a  fancy  price  to-day.  He  immediately  con- 
tracted what  Holmes  used  to  call  "lead-poisoning," 
and  the  sight  of  his  work  in  type  made  a  literary 
career  certain.  He  produced  volume  after  volume, 
in  both  prose  and  verse,  with  amazing  rapidity,  and 
his  fame  overflowed  the  world.  A  London  periodical 
prophesied  in  1888,  "The  book  gives  hope  of  a  new 
literary  star  of  no  mean  magnitude  rising  in  the  East." 
The  amount  and  excellence  of  his  output  may  be 
judged  when  we  remember  that  in  the  three  years 
from  1886  to  1889  he  published  Departmental  Ditties, 
Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills,  Soldiers  Three,  In  Black 
and  White,  The  Story  of  the  Gadshys,  The  Man  Who 
Would  Be  King,  The  Phantom,  ^Rickshaw,  Wee  Willie 
Winkie,  and  other  narratives. 

The  originality,  freshness,  and  power  of  all  this 
work  made  Europe  stare  and  gasp.  For  some  years 
he  had  as  much  notoriety  as  reputation.  We 
used  to  hear  of  the  Kipling  "craze,"  the  Kipling 
"boom,"  the  Kipling  "fad,"  and  Kipling  clubs 
sprang  up  like  mushrooms.  It  was  difficult  to  read 
210 


RUDYARD    KIPLING 

him  in  cool  blood,  because  he  was  discussed  pro  and 
con  with  so  much  passion.  He  was  fashionable, 
in  the  manner  of  ping-pong;  and  there  were  not 
wanting  pessimistic  prophets  who  looked  upon  him 
as  a  comet  rather  than  a  fixed  star.  So  late  as  1895 
a  well-known  American  journal  said  of  him:  "Rud- 
yard  Kipling  is  supposed  to  be  the  cleverest  man  now 
handling  the  pen.  The  magazines  accept  every- 
thing he  writes,  and  pay  him  fabulous  prices.  Kip- 
ling is  now  printing  a  series  of  Jungle  Stories  that 
are  so  weak  and  foolish  that  we  have  never  been 
able  to  read  them.  They  are  not  fables:  they  are 
stories  of  animals  talking,  and  they  are  pointless, 
so  far  as  the  average  reader  is  able  to  judge.  We  have 
asked  a  good  many  magazine  editors  about  Kipling's 
Jungle  Stories;  they  all  express  the  same  astonish- 
ment that  the  magazine  editors  accept  them.  Kip- 
ling will  soon  be  dropped  by  the  magazine  editors; 
they  will  inevitably  discover  that  his  stories  are  not 
admired  by  the  people.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
died  just  in  time  to  save  him  from  the  same  fate." 
Many  honestly  believed  that  Mr.  Kipling  could 
write  only  in  flashes;  that  he  was  incapable  of  pro- 
ducing a  complete  novel.  His  answer  to  this  was 
The  Light  that  Failed,  which,  although  he 
made  the  mistake  of  giving  it  a  reversible  ending, 
indicated  that  his  own  lamp  had  yet  sufficient  oil. 
In  1895  he  added  immensely  to  the  solidity  of  his 

211 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

fame  by  printing  The  Brushwood  Boy,  the  scenes  of 
which  he  announced  previously  would  be  laid  in 
"England,  India,  and  the  world  of  dreams."  Here 
he  temporarily  forsook  the,  land  of  mysterious  horror 
for  the  land  of  mysterious  beauty,  and  many  were 
grateful,  and  said  so.  In  1896  the  appearance  of 
The  Seven  Seas  proved  beyond  cavil  that  he  was 
something  more  than  a  music-hall  rimester  —  that 
he  was  really  among  the  English  poets.  The  very 
next  year  The  Recessional  stirred  the  religious  con- 
sciousness of  the  whole  English-speaking  race. 
And  although  much  of  his  subsequent  career  seems 
to  be  a  nullification  of  the  sentiment  of  that  poem, 
it  will  remain  imperishable  when  the  absent-minded 
beggars  and  the  flannelled  fools  have  reached  the 
oblivion  they  so  richly  deserve. 

In  1897  he  tried  his  hand  for  the  second  time  at 
a  complete  novel.  Captains  Courageous,  and  the 
result  might  safely  be  called  a  success.  The  moral 
of  this  story  will  be  worth  a  word  or  two  later  on. 
The  next  year  an  important  volume  came  from  his 
pen.  The  Day^s  Work  —  important  because  it  is 
in  this  volume  that  the  new  Kipling  is  first  plainly 
seen,  and  the  mechanical  engineer  takes  the  place 
of  the  literary  artist.  Such  curiosities  as  The  Ship 
that  Found  Herself,  The  Bridge-Builders,  .007, 
became  anything  but  curiosities  in  his  later  work. 
This  collection  was  sadly  marred  by  the  inclusion 


RUDYARD   KIPLING 

of  such  wretched  stuff  as  My  Sunday  at  Home,  and 
An  Error  in  the  Fourth  Dimension;  but  it  was 
glorified  by  one  of  the  most  exquisitely  tender  and 
beautiful  of  all  Mr.  Kipling's  talcs,  William  the 
Conqueror.  And  it  should  not  be  forgotten  that  the 
author  saw  fit  to  close  this  volume  with  the  previously 
printed  and  universally  popular  Brushwood  Boy. 
Then,  at  the  very  height  of  his  ten  years'  fame, 
Mr.  Kipling  came  closer  to  death  than  almost  any 
other  individual  has  safely  done.  As  he  lay  sick 
with  pneumonia  in  New  York,  the  American  people, 
whom  he  has  so  frequently  ridiculed,  were  more 
generally  and  profoundly  affected  than  they  have 
been  at  the  bedside  of  a  dying  President.  The  year 
1899  marked  the  great  physical  crisis  of  his  life, 
and  seems  also  to  indicate  a  turning-point  in  his 
literary  career. 

Whatever  may  be  thought  of  the  relative  merits  of 
Mr.  Kipling's  early  and  later  style,  it  is  fortunate 
for  him  that  the  two  decades  of  composition  were 
not  transposed.  We  all  read  the  early  work  because 
we  could  not  help  it ;  we  read  his  twentieth-century 
compositions  because  he  wrote  them.  It  is  lucky 
that  the  Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills  preceded  Puck 
of  Pookas  Hill,  and  that  The  Light  that  Failed  came 
before  Stalky  and  Co.  Whether  these  later  produc- 
tions could  have  got  into  print  without  the  tremen- 
dous prestige  of  their  author's  name,  is  a  question 

213 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

that  has  all  the  fascination  and  all  the  insolubility 
of  speculative  philosophy.  The  suddenness  of  his 
early  popularity  may  be  perhaps  partly  accounted 
for  by  the  fact  that  he  was  working  a  new 
field.  The  two  authors  who  have  most  influenced 
Mr.  Kipling's  style  are  both  Americans  —  Bret 
Harte  and  Mark  Twain;  and  the  analogy  between 
the  sudden  fame  of  Harte  and  the  sudden  fame  of 
Mr.  Kipling  is  too  obvious  to  escape  notice.  /  Bret 
Harte  found  in  California  ore  of  a  different  kind 
than  his  maddened  contemporaries  sought;  his 
early  tales  had  all  the  charm  of  something  new  and 
strange.  What  Bret  Harte  made  out  of  California 
Mr,  Kipling  made  out  of  India;  at  the  beginning 
he  was  a  "sectional  writer,"  who,  with  the  instinct 
of  genius,  made  his  literary  opportunity  out  of  his 
environment.  The  material  was  at  hand,  the  time 
was  ripe,  and  the  man  was  on  the  spot.  It  was  the 
strong  "local  colour"  in  these  powerful  Indian 
tales  that  captivated  readers  —  who,  in  far-away 
centres  of  culture  and  comfort,  delighted  to  read 
of  primitive  passions  in  savage  surroundings.  We 
had  all  the  rest  and  change  of  air  that  we  could  have 
obtained  in  a  journey  to  the  Orient,  without  any 
of  the  expense,  discomfort,  and  peril. 

But  after  the  spell  of  the  wizard's  imagination 
has  left  us,  we  cannot  help  asking,  after  the  manner 
of  the  small  boy,  Is  it  true?    Are  these  pictures  of 

214 


RUDYARD   KIPLING 

English  and  native  life  in  India  faithful  reflexions 
of  fact?  Can  we  depend  on  Mr.  Kipling  for  India, 
as  we  can  depend  (let  us  say)  on  Daudet  for  a 
picture  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  ?  Now  it  is  a  notable 
fact  that  local  colour  seems  most  genuine  to  those 
who  are  unable  to  verify  it.  It  is  a  melancholy 
truth  that  the  community  portrayed  by  a  novelist 
not  only  almost  invariably  deny  the  likeness  of  the 
portrait,  but  that  they  emphatically  resent  the 
liberty  taken.  Stories  of  college  life  are  laughed 
to  scorn  by  the  young  gentlemen  described  therein, 
no  matter  how  fine  the  local  colour  may  seem  to 
outsiders.  The  same  is  true  of  social  strata  in 
society,  of  provincial  towns,  and  Heaven  only  knows 
what  the  Slums  would  say  to  their  depiction  in 
novels,  if  only  the  Slums  could  read.  One  reason 
for  this  is  that  a  novel  or  a  short  story  must  have 
a  beginning  and  an  end,  and  some  kind  of  a  plot; 
whereas  life  has  no  such  thing,  nor  anything  remotely 
resembling  it.  When  honest  people  see  their  daily 
lives,  made  up  of  thousands  of  unrelated  incidents, 
served  up  to  remote  readers  in  the  form  of  an  orderly 
progression  of  events,  leading  up  to  a  proper  climax, 
the  whole  thing  seems  monstrously  unreal  and  un- 
true. "Why,  we  are  not  in  the  least  like  that!" 
\  they  cry.  And  I  have  purposely  omitted  the  factor 
of  exaggeration,  absolutely  essential  to  the  realistic 
novelist  or  playwright. 

215 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

In  a  notice  of  the  Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills,  the 
London  Saturday  Review  remarked,  "Mr.  Kipling 
knows  and  appreciates  the  EngHsh  in  India."  But 
it  is  more  interesting  and  profitable  to  see  how  his 
stories  were  regarded  in  the  country  he  described. 
In  the  Calcutta  Times,  for  14  September,  1895,  there 
was  a  long  editorial  which  is  valuable,  at  any  rate, 
for  the  point  of  view.  After  mentioning  the  Plain 
Tales,  Soldiers  Three,  Barrack-room  Ballads,  etc., 
the  Times  critic  said:  — 

"Except  in  a  few  instances  which  might  easily  be  numbered 
on  the  fingers  of  one  hand,  nothing  in  the  books  we  have 
named  is  at  all  likely  to  live  or  deserves  to  live.  ...  It  will 
probably  be  answered  that  this  sweeping  condemnation  is 
not  of  much  value  against  the  emphatic  approval  of  the  British 
public  and  the  aforesaid  chorus  of  critics  in  praise  of  the  new 
Genius.  .  .  .  And  the  English  critics  have  this  to  plead  in 
excuse  of  their  hyperbolical  appreciation  of  the  Stronger 
Dickens,  that  his  first  work  came  to  them  fathered  with  re- 
sponsible guarantee  from  men  who  should  have  known  better, 
that  it  was  in  the  way  of  a  revelation  of  Anglo-Indian  society, 
a-letting  in  the  light  of  truth  on  places  which  had  been  very 
dark  indeed. 

"Now  the  average  English  critic  knows  very  little  of  the 
intricacies  of  social  life  in  India,  and  in  the  enthusiasm  which 
Mrs.  Hauksbee  and  kindred  creations  inspired  he  accepted 
too  readily  as  true  types  what  arc,  in  fact,  caricatures,  or  dis- 
torted presentments,  of  some  of  the  more  poisonous  social 
characteristics  to  be  found  in  Anglo-Indian  as  well  as  in  every 
other  civilised  society.  .  .  .  Do  not  let  us  be  understood 
216 


RUDYARD   KIPLING 

as  recklessly  running  down  Kipling  and  all  his  works.  .  .  . 
He  possesses  in  a  high  degree  the  power  of  describing  a  certain 
class  of  emotions,  and  the  flights  of  his  imagination  in  some 
directions  are  extremely  bold  and  original.  In  such  tales, 
for  instance,  as  'The  Man  who  would  be  a  King'  (sic)  and 
'The  Ride  of  Morrowby  Jukes'  (sic)  there  are  qualities  of 
the  imagination  which  equal,  if  they  do  not  surpass,  anything 
in  the  same  line  with  which  we  are  acquainted.  .  .  .  The 
capital  charge,  in  the  opinion  of  many,  the  head  and  front 
of  his  offending,  is  that  he  has  traduced  a  whole  society,  and 
has  spread  Hbels  broadcast.  Anglo-Indian  society  may  in 
some  respects  be  below  the  average  level  of  the  best  society 
in  the  Western  world,  where  the  rush  and  stir  of  life  and  the 
collision  of  intellects  combine  to  keep  the  atmosphere  clearer 
and  more  bracing  than  in  this  land  of  tennis,  office  boxes, 
frontier  wars,  and  enervation.  But  as  far  as  it  falls  below 
what  many  would  wish  it  to  be,  so  far  it  rises  above  the  de- 
scription of  it  which  now  passes  current  at  home  under  the 
sanction  of  Kipling's  name.  .  .  .  For  whether  Kipling  is 
treating  of  Indian  subjects  pure  and  simple,  of  Anglo-Indian 
subjects,  or  is  attempting  a  Western  theme,  the  personality 
of  the  writer  is  pervasive  and  intrusive  everywhere,  with  all 
its  limitations  of  vision  and  information,  as  well  as  with  its 
eternal  panoply  of  cheap  smartness  and  spiced  vulgarity.  .  .  . 
Smartness  is  always  first  with  him,  and  Truth  may  shift  for 
herself." 

Although  the  writer  of  the  above  article  is  some- 
what blinded  by  prejudice  and  wrath,  it  is,  never- 
theless, interesting  testimony  from  the  particular 
section  of  our  planet  which  Mr.  Kipling  was  at  that 
time    supposed    to    know  best.     And    out   in   San 

217 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

Francisco  they  are  still  talking  of  Mr.  Kipling's 
visit  there,  and  the  "abominable  libel"  of  California 
life  and  customs  he  chose  to  publish  in  From  Sea 
to  Sea. 

Apart  from  Mr.  Kipling's  good  fortune  in  having 
fresh  material  to  deal  with,  the  success  of  his  early 
v^'ork  lay  chiefly  in  its  dominant  quality  —  Force. 
For  the  last  thirty  years,  the  world  has  been  full  of 
literary  experts,  professional  story-writers,  to  whom 
the  pen  is  a  means  of  livelihood.  Our  magazines 
are  crowded  with  tales  which  are  well  written,  and 
nothing  else.  They  say  nothing,  because  their 
writers  have  nothing  to  say.  The  impression  left 
on  the  mind  by  the  great  majority  of  handsomely 
bound  novels  is  like  that  of  a  man  who  beholds  his 
natural  face  in  a  glass.  The  thing  we  miss  is 
the  thing  we  unconsciously  demand  — Vitality.  In 
the  rare  instances  where  vitality  is  the  ground- 
quality,  readers  forgive  all  kinds  of  excrescences 
and  defects,  as  they  did  twenty  years  ago  in  Mr. 
Kipling,  and  later,  for  example,  in  Jack  London. 
The  original  vigour  and  strength  of  Mr.  Kipling's 
stories  were  to  the  jaded  reader  a  keen,  refreshing 
breeze;  like  Marlowe  in  Elizabethan  days  he  seemed 
a  towering,  robust,  masculine  personality,  who  had 
at  his  command  an  inexhaustible  sup})ly  of  material 
absolutely  new.  This  undoubted  vigour  was  nat- 
urally unaccompanied  by  moderation  and  good 
218 


RUDYARD   KIPLING 

taste;  Mr.  Kipling's  sins  against  artistic  proportion 
and  the  law  of  subtle  suggestion  were  black  indeed. 
He  simply  had  no  reserve.  In  The  Man  Who 
Would  Be  King,  which  I  have  always  regarded  as 
his  masterpiece,  the  subject  was  so  big  that  no 
reserve  in  handling  it  was  necessary.  The  whole 
thing  was  an  inspiration,  of  imagination  all  compact. 
But  in  many  other  instances  his  style  was  altogether 
too  loud  for  his  subject.  One  wearies  of  eternal 
fortissimo.  Many  of  his  tales  should  have  been 
printed  throughout  in  italics.  In  examples  of  this 
nature,  which  are  all  too  frequent  in  the  "Complete 
Works"  of  Mr.  Kipling,  the  tragedy  becomes  melo- 
drama; the  humour  becomes  buffoonery;  the  pic- 
turesque becomes  bizarre ;  the  terrible  becomes  hor- 
rible;   and  vulgarity  reigns  supreme. 

He  is  far  better  in  depicting  action  than  in  por- 
traying character.  This  is  one  reason  why  his 
short  stories  are  better  than  his  novels.  In  The 
Light  that  Failed,  with  all  its  merits,  he  never  realised 
the  character  of  Maisie;  but  in  his  tales  of  violent 
action,  we  feel  the  vividness  of  the  scene,  time  and 
again.  His  work  here  is  effective,  because  Mr. 
Kipling  has  an  acute  sense  of  the  value  of  words, 
just  as  a  great  musician  has  a  correct  ear  for  the 
value  of  pilch.  When  one  takes  the  trouble  to  analyse 
his  style  in  his  most  striking  passages,  it  all  comes 
down  to  skill  in  the  use  of  the  specific  word  —  the 

219 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

word  that  makes  the  picture  clear,  sometimes  in- 
tolerably clear.  Look  at  the  nouns  and  adjectives 
in  this  selection  from  The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft: 

"They  then  selected  their  men,  and  slew  them  with  deep 
gasps  and  short  hacking  coughs,  and  groanings  of  leather 
belts  against  strained  bodies,  and  realised  for  the  first  time 
that  an  Afghan  attacked  is  far  less  formidable  than  an  Afghan 
attacking;    which  fact  old  soldiers  might  have  told  them. 

"But  they  had  no  old  soldiers  in  their  ranks." 

There  are  two  defects  in  Mr.  Kipling's  earlier  work 
that  might  perhaps  be  classed  as  moral  deficiencies. 
One  is  the  almost  ever  present  coarseness,  which  the 
author  mistook  for  vigour.  Now  the  tendency  to 
coarseness  is  inseparable  from  force,  and  needs  to 
be  held  in  check.  Coarseness  is  the  inevitable  ex- 
crescence of  superabundant  vitality,  just  as  effemi- 
nacy is  the  danger  limit  of  delicacy  and  refinement. 
Swift  and  Rabelais  had  the  coarseness  of  a  robust 
English  sailor;  at  their  worst  they  are  simply  abom- 
inable, just  as  Tennyson  at  his  worst  is  effemi- 
nate and  silly.  Mr.  Kipling  has  that  natural  dehght 
in  coarseness  that  all  strong  natures  have,  whether 
they  are  willing  to  admit  it  or  not.  A  large  pro- 
portion of  his  scenes  of  humour  are  devoted  to 
drunkenness:  "gloriously  drunk"  is  a  favourite 
phrase  with  him.  The  time  may  come  when  this 
sort  of  humour  will  be  obsolete.  We  laugh  at 
drunkenness,  as  the  Elizabethans  laughed  at  insanity, 
220 


RUDYARD   KIPLING 

but  we  arc  only  somewhat  nearer  real  civilisation 
than  they.  At  any  rate,  even  those  who  delight  in 
scenes  of  intoxication  must  fmd  the  theme  rather 
overworked  in  Mr.  Kipling.  This  same  defect  in 
him  leads  to  indulgence  in  his  passion  for  ghastly 
detail.  This  is  where  he  ceases  to  be  a  man  of  letters, 
and  becomes  downright  journalistic.  It  is  easier 
to  excite  momentary  attention  by  physical  horror 
than  by  any  other  device;  and  Mr.  Kipling  is  de- 
termined to  leave  nothing  to  the  imagination.  Many 
instances  might  be  cited;  we  need  only  recall  the 
gouging  out  of  a  man's  eye  in  The  Light  that  Failed, 
and  the  human  brains  on  the  boot  in  Badalia  Herods- 
foot. 

The  other  moral  defect  in  this  early  work  was  its 
world-weary  cynicism,  which  was  simply  foolish 
in  so  young  a  writer.  His  treatment  of  women,  for 
example,  compares  unfavourably  with  that  shown 
in  the  frankest  tales  of  Bret  Harte.  His  attitude 
toward  women  in  these  youthful  books  has  been 
well  described  as  "disillusioned  gallantry."  The 
author  continually  gives  the  reader  a  "knowing 
wink,"  which,  after  a  time,  gets  on  one's  nerves. 
These  books,  after  all,  were  probably  not  meant 
for  women  to  read,  and  perhaps  no  one  was  more 
surprised  than  Mr.  Kipling  himself  at  the  rapturous 
exclamations  of  the  thousands  of  his  feminine  adorers. 
A  woman  rejoicing  in  the  perusal  of  these  Indian 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

tales  seems  as  much  out  of  place  as  she -does  in  the 
office  of  a  cheap  country  hotel,  reeking  with  the 
fumes  of  whiskey  "and  stale  tobacco,  and  adorned 
with  men  who  spit  with  astonishing  accuracy  into 
distant  receptacles. 

Mr.  Kipling  doubtless  knows  more  about  his  own 
faults  than  any  of  the  critics;  and  if  after  one  has 
read  The  Light  that  Failed  for  the  sake  of  the  story, 
one  rereads  it  attentively  as  an  Apologia  Pro  Vita 
Sua,  one  will  be  surprised  to  see  how  many  ideas 
about  his  art  he  has  put  into  the  mouth  of  Dick. 
"Under  any  circumstances,  remember,  four-fifths 
of  everybody's  work  must  be  bad.  But  the  remnant 
is  worth  the  trouble  for  its  own  sake."  "One  must 
do  something  always.  You  hang  your  canvas  up 
in  a  palm-tree  and  let  the  parrots  criticise."  "If 
we  sit  down  quietly  to  work  out  notions  that  are  sent 
to  us,  we  may  or  we  may  not  do  something  that 
isn't  bad.  A  great  deal  depends  on  being  master 
of  the  bricks  and  mortar  of  the  trade.  But  the  in- 
stant we  begin  to  think  about  success  and  the  effect 
of  our  work  —  to  play  with  one  eye  on  the  gallery  — 
we  lose  power  and  touch  and  everything  else.  .  .  . 
I  was  told  that  all  the  world  was  interested  in  my 
work,  and  everybody  at  Kami's  talked  turpentine, 
and  T  honestly  believed  that  the  world  needed  elevat- 
ing and  influencing,  and  all  manner  of  impertinences, 
by  my  brushes.     By  Jove,  I  actually  believed  that ! 


RUDYARD    KIPLING 

.  .  .  And  when  it's  done  it's  such  a  tiny  thing, 
and  the  world's  so  big,  and  all  but  a  millionth  part 
of  it  doesn't  care." 

Fortunately,  four-fifths  of  Kipling's  work  isn't 
bad.  We  are  safe  in  ascribing  genius  to  the  man 
who  wrote  The  Phantom  ^Rickshaw,  The  Strange 
Ride,  The  Man  Who  Would  Be  King,  William  tJie 
Conqueror,  The  Brushwood  Boy,  and  The  Jungle 
Book.  These,  and  many  other  talcs,  to  say  nothing 
of  his  poetry,  constitute  an  astounding  achievement 
for  a  writer  under  thirty-five. 

But  the  Kipling  of  the  last  ten  years  is  an  Imperi- 
alist and  a  Mechanic,  rather  than  a  literary  man. 
We  need  not  classify  Stalky  and  Co.,  except  to  say 
that  it  is  probably  the  worst  novel  ever  written  by 
a  man  of  genius.  It  is  on  a  false  pitch  throughout, 
and  the  most  rasping  book  of  recent  times.  The 
only  good  things  in  it  are  the  quotMions  from 
Browning.  The  Jingo  in  Mr.  Kipling  was  released 
by  the  outbreak  of  the  South  African  War,  and  the 
author  of  Tlie  Recessional  forgot  everything  he  had 
prayed  God  to  remember.  He  became  the  voice 
of  the  British  Empire,  and  the  man  who  had  always 
ridiculed  Americans  for  bunkum  oratory,  out- 
screamed  us  all.  In  this  imperialistic  verse  and 
prose  there  is  not  much  literature,  but  there  is  a  great 
deal  of  noise,  which  has  occasionally  deceived  the 
public;   just  as  an  orator  is  sure  of  a  round  of  ap- 

223 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

plause  if  his  peroration  is  shouted  at  the  top  of  his 
voice.  His  recent  book,  Puck  of  Pookas  Hill,  is 
written  against  the  grain ;  painful  effort  has  supplied 
the  place  of  the  old  inspiration,  and  the  simplicity 
of  true  art  is  conspicuous  by  its  absence.  Of  this 
volume.  The  AthencButn,  in  general  friendly  to 
Kipling,  remarks:  "In  his  new  part  —  the  mis- 
sionary of  empire  —  Mr.  Kipling  is  living  the  strenu- 
ous life.  He  has  frankly  abandoned  story-telling, 
and  is  using  his  complete  and  powerful  armory  in 
the  interest  of  patriotic  zeal."  On  the  other  hand, 
Mr.  Owen  Wister,  whose  opinion  is  valuable,  thinks 
Puck  "the  highest  plane  that  he  has  ever  reached" 
—  a  judgement  that  I  record  with  respect,  though 
to  me  it  is  incomprehensible. 

Kipling  the  Mechanic  is  less  useful  than  an  en- 
cyclopaedia, and  not  any  more  interesting.  A  comic 
paper  describes  him  as  "now  a  technical  expert; 
at  one  time  a  popular  writer.  This  young  man  was 
born  in  India,  came  to  his  promise  in  America,  and 
lost  himself  in  England.  His  Plain  Tales  of  the 
Hills  {sic)  has  been  succeeded  by  Enigmatical 
Expositions  from  tJie  Dark  Valleys.  .  .  .  Mr.  Kip- 
ling has  declared  that  the  Americans  have  never 
forgiven  him  for  not  dying  in  their  country.  On  the 
contrary,  they  have  never  forgiven  liim  for  not  having 
written  anything  better  since  he  was  here  than  he 
did  before.  But  while  there's  Kipling,  there's  hope." 
224 


RUDYARD   KIPLING 

It  is  to  be  earnestly  hoped  that  he  will  cease  describ- 
ing the  machinery  of  automobiles,  ships,  locomotives, 
and  flying  air-vessels,  and  once  more  look  in  his  heart 
and  write.  His  worst  enemy  is  himself.  He  seems  to 
be  in  terror  lest  he  should  say  something  ordinary 
and  commonplace.  He  has  been  so  praised  for  his 
originality  and  powerful  imagination,  that  his  later 
books  give  one  the  impression  of  a  man  writing  in 
the  sweat  of  his  face,  with  the  grim  determination 
to  make  every  sentence  a  literary  event.  Such  a 
tale  as  Wireless  shows  that  the  zeal  for  originality 
has  eaten  him  up.  One  can  feel  on  every  page  the 
straining  for  effect,  and  it  is  as  exhausting  to  read 
as  it  is  to  watch  a  wrestling-match,  and  not  nearly 
so  entertaining.  If  Mr.  Kipling  goes  on  in  the  vein 
of  these  later  years,  he  may  ultimately  survive  his 
reputation,  as  many  a  good  man  has  done  before 
him.  I  should  think  even  now,  when  the  author 
of  Puck  of  Pook's  Hill  turns  over  the  pages  of  Tlie 
Man  Who  Would  Be  King,  he  would  say  with  Swift, 
"  Good  God !  what  a  genius  I  had  when  I  wrote  that 
book!" 

His  latest  collection  of  tales,  with  the  significant 
title,  Actions  and  Reactions,  is  a  particularly  wel- 
come volume  to  those  of  us  who  prefer  the  nine- 
teenth century  Kipling  to  the  twentieth.  To  be 
sure,  the  story  With  the  Night  Mail,  shows  the  new 
mechanical  cleverness  rather  than  the  old  inspira- 
Q  225 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

tion  ;  it  is  both  ingenious  and  ephemeral,  and  should 
have  remained  within  the  covers  of  the  magazine 
where  it  first  appeared.  Furthermore,  A  Deal  in 
Cotton,  The  Puzzler,  and  Little  Foxes  are  neither 
clever  nor  literary  ;  they  are  merely  irritating,  and 
remind  us  of  a  book  we  would  gladly  forget,  called 
Traffics  and  Discoveries.  But  the  first  narrative  in 
this  new  volume,  with  the  caption,  An  Habitation 
Enforced,  is  one  of  the  most  subtle,  charming,  and 
altogether  delightful  things  that  Mr.  Kipling  has 
ever  given  us ;  nor  has  he  ever  brought  English  and 
American  people  in  conjunction  with  so  much 
charity  and  good  feeling.  I  do  not  think  he  has 
previously  shown  greater  psychological  power  than 
in  this  beautiful  story.  In  the  second  tale.  Garni  — 
A  Hostage,  Mr.  Kipling  joins  the  ranks  of  the  dog 
worshippers  ;  the  exploits  of  this  astonishing  canine 
will  please  all  dog-owners,  and  many  others  as  well. 
Naturally  he  has  to  exaggerate ;  instead  of  making  his 
four-footed  hero  merely  intelligent,  he  makes  him 
noble  in  reason,  infinite  in  faculty,  in  apprehension 
like  a  god,  the  paragon  of  animals.  But  it  is  a 
brilliant  piece  of  work.  The  last  story,  The  House 
Surgeon,  takes  us  into  the  world  of  spirit,  whither 
Mr.  Kipling  has  successfully  conducted  his  readers 
before.  This  mysterious  domain  seems  to  have  a 
constantly  increasing  attraction  for  modern  realistic 
writers,  and  has  enormously  enlarged  the  stock  of 
226 


RUDYARD   KIPLING 

material  for  contemporary  novelists.  The  field  is 
the  world,  yes;  but  the  world  is  bigger  than  it  used 
to  be,  bigger  than  any  boundaries  indicated  by  maps 
or  globes.  It  would  be  interesting  to  speculate  just 
what  the  influence  of  all  these  transcendental  excur- 
sionswill  be  on  modern  fiction  as  an  educational  force. 
Mr.  Kipling  apparently  writes  with  sincere  convic- 
tion, and  in  a  powerfully  impressive  manner.  The 
poetic  interludes  in  this  volume,  like  those  in  Puck 
of  Pookas  Hill,  show  that  the  author's  skill  in  verse 
has  not  in  the  least  abated  ;  the  lines  on  The  Power 
of  the  Dog  are  simply  irresistible.  It  is  safe  to  say 
that  Actions  and  Reactions  will  react  favourably  on 
all  unprejudiced  readers;  and  for  this  relief  much 
thanks.  If  one  wishes  to  observe  the  difference  be- 
tween the  inspired  and  the  ingenious  Mr.  Kipling, 
one  has  only  to  read  this  collection  straight  through.* 
Like  almost  all  Anglo-Saxon  writers,  Mr.  Kipling 
is  a  moralist,  and  his  gospel  is  Work.  He  believes 
in  the  strenuous  life  as  a  cure-all.  He  apparently 
does  not  agree  with  Goethe  that  To  Be  is  greater  than 
To  Do.  The  moral  of  Captains  Courageous  is 
the  same  moral  contained  in  the  ingenious  bee-hive 

*  I  have  not  discussed  a  new  collection  of  Mr.  Kipling's  stories, 
called  ^6a/if  the  Funnel,  consisting  of  reprints  of  early  fugitive 
pieces  ;  because  there  is  not  the  slightest  indication  that  this  book 
is  in  any  way  authorised,  or  that  its  publication  has  the  approval 
of  the  man  who  wrote  it.  Perhaps  an  authorised  edition  of  it 
may  now  become  necessary. 

227 


ESSAYS   ON    MODERN   NOVELISTS 

story.  The  unpardonable  sin  is  Idleness.  But 
although  Work  is  good  for  humanity,  it  is  rather 
limited  as  an  ideal,  and  we  cannot  rate  Mr.  Kipling 
very  high  as  a  spiritual  teacher.  God  is  not  always 
in  the  wind,  or  in  the  earthquake,  or  in  the  fire.  The 
day-dreams  of  men  like  Stevenson  and  Thackeray 
sometimes  bear  more  fruit  than  the  furious  energy 
of  Mr.  Kipling. 

But  the  consuming  ambition  of  this  man,  and  his 
honest  desire  to  do  his  best,  will,  let  us  hope,  spare 
him  the  humiliation  of  being  beaten  by  his  own 
past.  Aiter  all,  Genius  is  the  rarest  article  in  the 
world,  and  one  who  undoubtedly  has  it  is  far  more 
likely  to  reach  the  top  of  the  hill  than  he  is  to  take 
the  road  to  Danger,  which  leads  into  a  great  wood ; 
or  the  road  to  Destruction,  which  leads  into  a  wide 
field,  full  of  dark  mountains. 


228 


XII 

"LORNA  DOONE" 

The  air  of  Devon  and  Somerset  is  full  of  literary 
germs.  The  best  advice  a  London  hack  could  give 
to  a  Gigadibs  would  be  Go  west,  young  man.  The 
essential  thing  is  to  establish  a  residence  south  of 
Bristol,  grow  old  along  with  Wessex,  and  inhale 
the  atmosphere.  Thousands  of  reverent  pilgrims, 
on  foot,  on  bicycle,  and  in  automobile,  are  yearly 
following  the  tragic  trails  of  Mr.  Hardy's  heroines; 
to  a  constantly  increasing  circle  of  interested  ob- 
servers, Mr.  Eden  Phillpotts  is  making  the  topog- 
raphy of  Devon  clearer  than  an  ordnance  map; 
if  Mrs.  Willcocks  writes  a  few  more  novels  like 
The  Wingless  Victory  and  A  Man  of  Genius,  we 
shall  soon  all  be  talking  about  her  —  just  wait  and 
sec ;  and  in  the  summer  season,  when  soft  is  the  sun, 
the  top^  of  coaches  in  North  Devon  and  Somerset 
are  paclied  with  excited  Americans,  carrying  Lornas 
instead  df  Baedekers.  To  the  book-loving  tourists, 
every  inch  of  this  territory  is  holy  ground. 

Yet  the  author  of  our  favourite  romance  was  not 
by  birth  a  Wessex  man.     Mr.  Richard  D.  Black- 

229 

\ 
\ 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

more  (for,  like  the  creator  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  his 
name  is  not  nearly  so  well  known  as  his  work) 
first  "saw  the  light"  in  Berkshire,  the  year  being 
1825.  But  he  was  exposed  to  the  Wessex  germs 
at  the  critical  period  of  boyhood,  actually  going  to 
Blundell's  School  at  Tiverton,  a  small  town  in  the 
heart  of  Devonshire,  fourteen  miles  north  of  Exeter, 
at  the  union  of  Exe  and  Lowman  rivers.  To  this 
same  school  he  sent  John  Ridd,  as  we  learn  in  the 
second  paragraph  of  the  novel :  — 

"John  Ridd,  the  elder,  churchwarden,  and  overseer,  being 
a  great  admirer  of  learning,  and  well  able  to  write  his  name, 
sent  me,  his  only  son,  to  be  schooled  at  Tiverton,  in  the 
County  of  Devon.  For  the  chief  boast  of  that  ancient  town 
(next  to  its  woolen  staple)  is  a  worthy  grammar-school,  the 
largest  in  the  west  of  England,  founded  and  handsomely 
endowed  in  the  year  1604  by  Master  Peter  Blundell,  of  that 
same  place,  clothier." 

From  this  institution  young  Blackmore  proceeded 
to  Exeter  College,  Oxford,  where  he  laid  the  founda- 
tions of  his  English  style  by  taking  high  rank  in  the 
classics.  Like  many  potential  poets  and  novelists, 
he  studied  law,  and  was  called  to  the  bar  in  1852. 
But  he  cared  little  for  the  dusty  purlieus  of  the 
Middle  Temple,  and  not  at  all  for  city  life:  his 
father  was  a  country  parson,  as  it  is  the  fashion  for 
English  fathers  of  men  of  letters  to  be,  and  the  young 
man  loved  the  peace  and  quiet  of  rural  scenery. 
230 


.    "LORNA   DOONE" 

He  finally  made  a  home  at  Tcddington,  in  Middle- 
sex, and  devoted  himself  to  the  avocation  of  fruit- 
growing. On  this  subject  he  became  an  authority, 
and  his  articles  on  gardening  were  widely  read. 
Here  he  died  in  January,  1900. 

His  death  was  mourned  by  many  thousand  persons 
who  never  saw  him,  and  who  knew  nothing  about  his 
life.  The  public  always  loves  the  makers  of  its 
favourite  books;  but  in  the  case  of  Mr,  Blackmore, 
every  reader  of  his  masterpiece  felt  a  peculiarly 
intimate  relation  with  the  man  who  wrote  it.  The 
story  is  so  full  of  the  milk  of  human  kindness,  its 
hero  and  heroine  are  so  irresistibly  attractive,  and 
it  radiates  so  wholesome  and  romantic  a  charm, 
that  one  cannot  read  it  without  feeling  on  the  best 
possible  terms  with  the  author  —  as  if  both  were 
intimate  friends  of  long  standing.  For  Lorna  Doone 
is  a  book  we  think  we  have  always  been  reading ;  we 
can  hardly  recall  the  time  when  it  had  not  become 
a  part  of  our  literary  experience;  just  as  it  takes  an 
effort  to  remember  that  there  were  days  and  years 
when  we  were  not  even  aware  of  the  existence  of 
persons  who  are  now  indissolubly  close.  They 
have  since  become  so  necessary  that  we  imagine  life 
before  we  knew  them  must  really  have  been  more 
barren  than  it  seemed. 

Like  many  successful  novelists,  Mr.  Blackmore 
began  his  literary  career  by  the  publication  of  verse, 
231 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

several  volumes  of  poems  appearing  from  his  pen 
during  the  years  1 854-1 860.  Although  he  never 
entirely  abandoned  verse  composition,  which  it 
was  only  too  apparent  that  he  wrote  with  his  left 
hand,  the  coolness  with  which  his  Muse  was  received 
may  have  been  a  cause  of  his  attempting  the  quite 
different  art  of  the  novel.  It  is  pleasant  to  remember, 
however,  that  in  these  early  years  he  translated 
Vergil's  Georgics;  combining  his  threefold  love  of 
the  classics,  of  poetry,  and  of  gardening.  Of  how 
much  practical  agricultural  value  he  found  the 
Mantuan  bard,  we  shall  never  know. 

Contrary  to  a  common  supposition,  Lorna  Doone 
was  not  his  first  story.  He  launched  two  ventures 
before  his  masterpiece  —  Clara  Vaughan  in  1864, 
and  Cradock  Nowell  in  1866.  These  won  no  ap- 
plause, and  have  not  emerged  from  the  congenial 
obHvion  in  which  they  speedily  foundered.  After 
these  false  starts,  the  great  book  came  out  in  1869, 
with  no  blare  of  publisher's  trumpet,  with  scanty 
notice  from  the  critics,  and  with  no  notice  of  any  kind 
from  the  public.  In  the  preface  to  the  twentieth 
edition,  and  his  various  prefaces  are  well  worth 
reading,  the  author  remarked :  — 

"What  a  lucky  maid  you  are,  my  Lorna!     When  first  you 

came  from  the  Western  Moors  nobody  cared  to  look  at  you; 

the  'leaders  of  the  public  taste'  led  none  of  it  to  make  test 

of  you.     Having  struggled  to  the  light  of  day,  through  ob- 

232 


"LORNA   DOONE" 

struction  and  repulses,  for  a  year  and  a  half  you  shivered  in 
a  cold  corner,  without  a  sun-ray.  Your  native  land  disdained 
your  voice,  and  America  answered,  'No  child  of  mine'; 
knowing  how  small  your  value  was,  you  were  glad  to  get  your 
fare  paid  to  any  distant  colony." 

The  Saturday  Review  for  5  November,  1870, 
uttered  a  few  patronising  words  of  praise.  The 
book  was  called  "a  work  of  real  excellence,"  but 
the  reviewer  timidly  added,  "We  do  not  pretend 
to  rank  it  with  the  acknowledged  masterpieces  of 
fiction."  On  the  whole,  there  is  good  ground 
for  gratitude  that  the  public  was  so  slow  to  see  the 
"real  excellence"  of  Lorna.  A  sudden  blaze  of 
popularity  is  sometimes  so  fierce  as  to  consume  its 
cause.  Let  us  spend  a  few  moments  in  devout 
meditation,  while  we  recall  the  ashes  of  "the  book 
of  the  year."  The  gradual  dawn  of  Lorna' s  fame 
has  assured  her  of  a  long  and  fair  day. 

Possibly  one  of  the  reasons  why  this  great  romance 
made  so  small  an  impression  was  because  it  ap- 
peared at  an  unpropitious  time.  The  sower  sowed 
the  seed;  but  the  thorns  of  Reade  and  Trollope 
sprang  up  and  choked  them.  These  two  novelists 
were  in  full  action;  and  they  kept  the  public  busy. 
Realism  was  strong  in  the  market;  people  did  not 
know  then,  as  we  do  now,  that  The  Cloister  and 
the  Hearth  was  worth  all  the  rest  of  Charles  Reade 
put  together.     Had  Lorna  Doone  appeared  toward 

233 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

the  end  of  the  century,  when  the  Romantic  Revival 
was  in  full  swing,  it  would  have  received  a  royal 
welcome.  But  how  many  would  have  recognised 
its  superiority  to  the  tinsel  stuff  of  those  recent  days, 
full  of  galvanised  knights  and  stuffed  chatelaines? 
For  Lorna  belongs  to  a  class  of  fiction  with  which 
we  were  flooded  in  the  nineties,  though,  compared 
with  the  ordinary  representative  of  its  kind,  it  is 
as  a  star  to  a  glow-worm.  Readers  then  enjoyed 
impossible  characters,  whose  talk  was  mainly  of 
"gramercy"  and  similar  curiosities,  for  they  had 
the  opportunity  to  "revel  in  the  glamour  of  a  bogus 
antiquity."  But  an  abundance  of  counterfeits 
does  not  lower  the  value  of  the  real  metal;  and 
Lorna  is  a  genuine  coin  struck  from  the  mint  of 
historical  romance.  In  the  original  preface  its 
author  modestly  said :  — 

"This  work  is  called  a  'romance,'  because  the  incidents, 
characters,  time,  and  scenery  are  alike  romantic.  And  in 
shaping  this  old  tale,  the  writer  neither  dares,  nor  desires, 
to  claim  for  it  the  dignity  or  cumber  it  with  the  difficulty  of 
an  historic  novel." 

In  warmth  and  colour,  in  correct  visualisation,  and 
in  successful  imitation  of  the  prose  of  a  bygone 
day  (which  no  one  has  ever  perfectly  accomplished), 
it  ranks  not  very  far  below  the  greatest  of  all  English 
historical  romances,  Henry  Esmond. 

Lorna  Boone  is  [)ractically  one  more  illustration 
234 


"LORNA   DOONE" 

of  Single-Speech  Hamilton.  After  its  appearance, 
its  author  wrote  and  pubh'shcd  steadily  for  thirty 
years;  but  the  fact  remains  that  not  only  is  Lorna 
his  best-known  work,  but  that  his  entire  reputa- 
tion hangs  upon  it.  Many  of  his  other  stories 
are  good,  notably  Cripps  the  Carrier  and  Perly- 
cross;  the  latter  has  a  most  ingenious  plot;  but 
these  two  now  peacefully  repose  with  their  mates 
in  undisturbed  slumber  at  dusty  library  corners. 
They  had  an  initial  sale  because  they  came  from 
the  hand  that  created  Lorna;  then  they  were  lost 
in  the  welter  of  ephemeral  literature.  Mr.  Black- 
more  offered  his  buyers  all  sorts  of  wares,  but,  after 
a  momentary  examination,  they  declined  what  was 
"just  as  good,"  and  returned  to  their  favourite, 
which,  by  the  way,  was  never  his ;  he  ranked  it 
third  among  his  productions. 

For  this  novel  is  not  only  one  of  the  best-loved 
books  in  English  fiction,  and  stands  magnificently 
the  severe  test  of  rereading,  it  is  bound  to  have 
even  more  admirers  in  the  future  than  it  has  ever 
yet  enjoyed ;  it  is  visibly  growing  in  reputation  every 
year.  It  may  be  interesting  to  analyse  some  of  its 
elements,  in  order  to  understand  what  has  given  it 
so  assured  a  place.  The  main  plot  is  simplicity 
itself.  It  is  a  history,  however,  that  the  world  has 
always  found  entertaining,  the  history  of  the  love 
of  a  strong  man  for  a  beautiful  girl.     They  meet, 

235 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

he  falls  in  love,  he  rescues  her  from  peril,  she  goes 
up  to  London,  becomes  a  great  lady,  returns,  is 
dangerously  wounded  on  her  wedding-day,  recovers, 
and  they  live  happily  for  ever  after  —  voila  tout. 
A  very  simple  plot,  yet  the  telling  fills  two  stout 
volumes,  with  the  reader's  interest  maintained  from 
first  to  last. 

It  is  told  in  the  first  person  —  the  approved  method 
of  the  historical  romance.  Professor  Raleigh  has  ad- 
mirably pointed  out  the  virtues  and  defects  of  the 
three  ways  of  composing  a  novel,  — direct  discourse 
by  the  chief  actor,  the  exclusive  employment  of  let- 
ters, and  the  "invisible  and  omniscient"  impersonal 
author.^  It  is  interesting  to  note,  in  passing,  that 
our  first  English  novelist,  Defoe,  adopted  the  first 
method;  Richardson,  our  second  novelist,  took  the 
second;  and  Fielding,  our  third  novelist,  took  the 
third.  Now,  the  great  advantage  of  having  John 
Ridd  speak  throughout  is  the  gain  in  reahty  and 
vividness;  it  is  as  though  we  sat  with  him  in  the 
ingle,  and  obtained  all  our  information  at  first  hand. 
What  is  lost  by  narrowness  of  experience  is  made  up 
in  intensity;  we  follow  him  breathlessly,  as  Des- 
demona  followed  Othello,  and  he  has  every  moment 
our  burning  sympathy.  We  participate  more  fully 
in  his  joys  and  sorrows,  in  the  agony  of  his  suspense ; 
wc  share  his  final  triumph.     He  is  talking  directly  to 

'  The  English  Novel,  Chapter  VI. 
236 


"LORNA   DOONE" 

us,  and  John  Ridd  is  a  good  talker.  He  is  the  kind 
of  man  who  appeals  to  all  classes  of  listeners.  He 
has  the  gentleness  and  modesty  that  are  so  becoming 
to  great  physical  strength;  the  love  of  children, 
animals,  and  all  helpless  creatures;  reverence  for 
God,  purity  of  heart,  and  a  noble  slowness  to  wrath. 
Such  a  man  is  simply  irresistible,  and  we  are  sorry 
when  he  finishes  his  tale.  The  defect  in  this  method 
of  narration,  which  Mr.  Blackmore  has  employed 
with  such  success,  is  the  inevitable  defect  in  all 
stories  written  in  this  manner,  as  Professor  Raleigh 
has  observed:  "It  takes  from  the  novelist  the  priv- 
ilege of  kilHng  his  hero."  When  John  Ridd  is 
securely  bound,  and  the  guns  of  hostile  soldiers  are 
levelled  at  his  huge  bulk,  with  their  fingers  actually 
on  the  triggers,  we  laugh  at  ourselves  for  our  high- 
beating  hearts;  for  of  course  he  is  unkillable,  else 
how  could  he  be  talking  at  this  very  moment  ? 

The  plot  of  Lorna  Doone,  which,  as  we  have  ob- 
served, is  very  simple,  is,  nevertheless,  skilfully 
complicated.  It  is  not  a  surprise  plot,  like  that  of 
A  Pair  of  Blue  Eyes;  we  are  not  stunned  by  the 
last  page.  It  is  a  suspense  plot;  we  have  a  well- 
founded  hope  that  all  will  come  right  in  the  end, 
and  yet  the  author  has  introduced  enough  disturb- 
ing elements  to  put  us  occasionally  in  a  maze.  This 
artistic  suspense  is  attained  partly  by  the  method 
of  direct  discourse;  which,  at  the  same  time,  develops 

237 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

the  character  of  the  hero.  Big  John  repeats  in- 
cidents, dwells  lengthily  on  minute  particulars, 
stops  to  enjoy  the  scenery,  and  makes  mountains  of 
stories  out  of  molehills  of  fact.  The  second  com- 
plication of  the  plot  arises  from  the  introduction  of 
characters  that  apparently  divert  the  course  of  the 
story  without  really  doing  so.  There  are  nineteen 
important  characters,  all  held  well  in  hand;  and  a 
conspicuous  example  of  a  complicating  personage  is 
Mttle  Ruth  Huckaback.  She  interferes  in  the  main 
plot  in  an  exceedingly  clever  way.  The  absorbing 
question  in  every  reader's  mind  is,  of  course.  Will 
John  marry  Lorna?  Now  Ruth's  interviews  with 
the  hero  are  so  skilfully  managed,  and  with  such 
intervals  of  time  between,  that  on  some  pages  she 
seems  destined  to  be  his  bride.  And,  admirably 
drawn  as  her  character  is,  when  her  artistic  purpose 
in  the  plot  is  fully  accomplished,  she  quietly  fades 
out,  with  the  significant  tribute,  ''Ruth  Huckaback 
is  not  married  yet." 

I  There  is  also  a  subsidiary  plot,  dovetailed  neatly 
into  the  main  building.  This  is  the  story  of  the 
attractive  highwayman,  Tom  Faggus,  and  his  love 
for  John's  sister,  Annie.  Many  pages  are  taken 
up  with  the  adventures  of  this  gentleman,  who  enters 
tlic  novel  on  horseback  (what  a  horse !)  at  the  mo- 
ment when  the  old  drake  is  fighting  for  his  life. 
Besides  our  interest  in  Tom  himself,  in  his  wild 
238 


"LORNA   DOONE" 

adventures,  and  in  his  reformation,  we  are  inter- 
ested in  the  conflict  of  his  two  passions,  one  for  the 
bottle,  and  one  for  Annie,  and  we  wonder  which  will 
win.  This  subsidiary  love  story  is  still  further  com- 
plicated by  the  introduction  of  young  De  Whiche- 
halse;  and  in  the  struggle  between  John  Ridd  and 
the  Doones,  both  Tom  Faggus  and  the  De  Whiche- 
halse  family  play  important  parts.  It  is  interesting, 
too,  to  observe  how  events  that  seem  at  the  time  to 
be  of  no  particular  importance,  turn  out  later  to 
be  highly  significant;  when,  at  the  very  beginning 
of  the  long  story,  the  little  boy,  on  his  way  home 
from  school,  meets  the  lady's  maid,  and  shortly 
after  sees  the  child  borne  away  on  the  robber's 
saddle,  we  imagine  all  this  is  put  in  to  enliven  the 
journey,  that  it  is  just  "detail";  long  afterwards 
we  find  the  artistic  motive.  In  fact,  one  of  the  most 
notable  virtues  of  this  admirable  plot  is  the  constant 
introduction  of  matters  apparently  irrelevant  and 
due  to  mere  garrulity,  such  as  the  uncanny  sound, 
for  example,  which  prove,  after  all  to  be  essential 
to  the  course  of  the  narrative. 

As  for  the  characters,  they  impress  us  differently 
in  different  moods.  For  all  John  Ridd's  prodigious 
strength,  marvellous  escapes,  and  astounding  feats, 
his  personality  is  so  intensely  human  that  he  seems 
real.  His  soul,  at  any  rate,  is  genuine,  and  wholly 
natural;    his   bodily    activity  —  the    extraction   of 

239 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

Carver's  biceps,  the  wrenching  of  the  branch  from 
the  tree,  the  hurling  of  the  cannon  through  the  door 

—  makes  him  a  dim  giant  in  a  fairy  story.  When 
we  think  of  the  qualities  of  his  mind  and  heart, 
he  comes  quite  close ;  when  we  think  of  his  physical 
prowess,  he  almost  vanishes  in  the  land  of  Fable. 
I  remember  the  comment  of  an  undergraduate  — 
"John  Ridd  is  as  remote  as  Achilles;  he  is  like  a 
Greek  myth." 

The  women  are  all  well  drawn  and  individualised 

—  except  the  heroine.  I  venture  to  say  that  no  one 
has  ever  seen  Lorna  in  his  mind's  eye.  She  is  like  a 
plate  that  will  not  develop.  A  very  pretty  girl  with 
an  affectionate  disposition,  —  what  more  can  be  said  ? 
But  so  long  as  a  Queen  has  beauty  and  dignity,  she 
does  not  need  to  be  interesting;  and  Lorna  is  the 
queen  of  this  romance.  John's  mother  and  his  two 
sisters  are  as  like  and  unlike  as  members  of  the  same 
family  ought  to  be;  they  are  real  women.  Ruth 
Huckaback  and  Gwenny  Carfax  are  great  additions 
to  our  literary  acquaintances;  each  would  make 
an  excellent  heroine  for  a  realistic  novel.  They  have 
the  indescribable  puzzling  characteristics  that  we 
call  feminine;  sudden  caprices,  flashes  of  unex- 
pected jealousy,  deep  loyal  tenderness,  unlimited 
capacity  for  self-sacrifice,  and  in  the  last  analysis, 
Mystery. 

The  humour  of  the  story  is  spontaneous,  and  of 
240 


"LORNA    DOONE" 

great  variety,  running  from  broad  mirth  to  whim- 
sical subtlety.  The  first  concerted  attack  on  the 
Doones  is  comic  opera  burlesque;  but  the  scenes 
of  humour  that  delight  us  most  are  those  describing 
friendly  relations  with  beast  and  bird.  The  eye  of 
the  old  drake,  as  he  stared  wildly  from  his  precarious 
position,  and  the  delight  of  the  ducks  as  they  wel- 
comed his  rescue;  above  all,  Annie's  care  of  the 
wild  birds  in  the  bitter  cold. 

"  There  was  not  a  bird  but  knew  her  well,  after  one  day 
of  comforting;  and  some  would  come  to  her  hand,  and  sit, 
and  shut  one  eye,  and  look  at  her.  Then  she  used  to  stroke 
their  heads,  and  feel  their  breasts,  and  talk  to  them;  and 
not  a  bird  of  them  all  was  there  but  liked  to  have  it  done  to 
him.  And  I  do  believe  they  would  eat  from  her  hand  things 
unnatural  to  them,  lest  she  should  be  grieved  and  hurt  by 
not  knowing  what  to  do  for  them.  One  of  them  was  a  noble 
bird,  such  as  I  had  never  seen  before,  of  very  fine  bright 
plumage,  and  larger  than  a  missel-thrush.  He  was  the  hardest 
of  all  to  please;   and  yet  he  tried  to  do  his  best." 

Whatever  may  be  the  merits  of  Mr.  Blackmore's 
published  verse,  there  is  more  poetry  in  Lorna  Doone 
than  in  many  volumes  of  formal  rime.  The  wonder- 
ful descriptions  of  the  coimtry  in  shade  and  shine, 
in  fog  and  drought,  the  pictures  of  the  sunrise  and 
the  falling  water,  the  "tumultuous  privacy"  of  the 
snow-storms,  —  these  are  all  descriptive  poems. 
Every  reader  has  noticed  the  peculiar  rliythm  of 
the  style,  and  wondered  if  it  were  intentional. 
R  241 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

Hundreds  of  sentences  here  and  there  are  perfect 
English  hexameters;  one  can  find  them  by  opening 
the  book  at  random,  and  reading  aloud.  But  this 
peculiar  element  in  the  style  goes  much  farther  than 
isolated  phrases.  There  are  solid  passages  of  steady 
rhythm,  which  might  correctly  be  printed  in  verse 
form.^ 

Mr.  Blackmore's  personal  character  was  so  modest, 
imassuming,  and  lovable,  that  it  is  not  difficult  to 
guess  the  source  of  the  purity,  sweetness,  and 
sincerity  of  his  great  book.  If  he  were  somewhat 
surprised  at  the  utter  coldness  of  its  first  reception, 
he  never  got  over  his  amazement  at  the  size  and 
extent  of  its  ultimate  triumph.  In  the  preface  to 
the  sixth  edition,  he  said :  — 

"Few  things  have  surprised  me  more,  and  nothing  has  more 
pleased  me,  than  the  great  success  of  this  simple  tale.  .  .  . 
Therefore  any  son  of  Devon  may  imagine,  and  vi'ill  not  grudge, 
the  writer's  delight  at  hearing  from  a  recent  visitor  to  the  west, 
that '  Lorna  Doone,  to  a  Devonshire  man,  is  as  good  as  clotted 
cream,  almost!' 

"Although  not  half  so  good  as  that,  it  has  entered  many  a 
tranquil,  happy,  pure,  and  hospitable  home;  and  the  author, 
while  deeply  grateful  for  this  genial  reception,  ascribes  it 
partly  to  the  fact  that  his  story  contains  no  word  or  thought 
disloyal  to  its  birthright  in  the  fairest  county  of  England." 

'  A  writer  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  notes  especially  the  closing 
paragraph  of  Chapter  XXVIII,  and  parts  of  Chapter  XXIX. 
242 


"LORNA   DOONE" 

Mr.  Blackmorc  lived  long  enough  to  see  an  entirely 
different  kind  of  "local  colour"  become  conven- 
tional, where  many  a  novelist,  portraying  his  native 
town  or  the  community  in  which  he  dwelt,  emphasised 
with  what  skill  he  could  command  all  its  poverty, 
squalor,  and  meanness;  the  disgusting  vices  and 
malignant  selfishness  of  its  inhabitants ;  and  after 
he  had  thus  fouled  his  nest  by  representing  it  as 
a  mass  of  filth,  degradation,  and  sin,  he  imagined 
he  had  created  a  work  of  art.  The  author  of  Lorna 
Doone  had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  he  had 
inspired  hundreds  of  thousands  of  readers  with  the 
love  of  his  favourite  west  country,  and  with  an 
intense  desire  to  visit  it.  And  being,  like  John 
Ridd,  of  a  forgiving  nature,  he  forgave  America  for 
its  early  neglect  of  his  story;  for  being  informed 
of  the  supremacy  of  Lorna  Doom  in  the  hearts  of 
American  undergraduates,  he  remarked,  in  a  letter 
to  the  present  writer,  "The good  word  of  the  young, 
who  are  at  once  the  most  intelligent  and  the  most 
highly  educated  of  a  vast  intellectual  nation,  augurs 
well  for  the  continuance  —  at  least  for  a  generation 
—  of  my  fortunate  production." 


243 


APPENDIX   A 

NOVELS  AS  A  UNIVERSITY  STUDY 

Some  fourteen  years  ago,  in  the  pamphlet  of  elective 
courses  of  study  open  to  the  senior  and  junior  classes 
of  Yale  College,  I  announced  a  new  course  called 
"Modern  Novels."  The  course  and  its  teacher 
immediately  became  the  object  of  newspaper  no- 
toriety, which  spells  academic  damnation.  From 
every  State  in  the  Union  long  newspaper  clippings 
were  sent  to  me,  in  which  my  harmless  little  peda- 
gogical scheme  was  discussed  —  often  under  enor- 
mous headlines  —  as  a  revolutionary  idea.  It  was 
praised  by  some,  denounced  by  others,  but  thoroughly 
advertised,  so  that,  for  many  months,  I  received 
letters  from  all  parts  of  the  Western  Hemisphere, 
asking  for  the  list  of  novels  read  and  the  method 
pursued  in  studying  them.  During  six  months 
these  letters  averaged  three  a  day,  and  they  came 
from  the  north,  south,  east,  and  west,  from  Alaska, 
Hawaii,  Central  and  South  America.  The  dust 
raised  by  all  this  hubbub  crossed  the  Atlantic. 
The  course  was  gravely  condemned  in  a  column 

245 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

editorial  in  the  London  Daily  Telegraph,  and  finally 
received  the  crowning  honour  of  a  parody  in 
Punch. 

Things  have  changed  somewhat  in  the  last  ten 
years,  and  although  I  have  never  repeated  my  one 
year's  experiment,  I  believe  that  it  would  be  perfectly 
safe  to  do  so.  Not  only  does  the  production  of  new 
novels  continue  at  constantly  accelerating  speed, 
but  critical  books  on  the  novel  have  begun  to  increase 
and  multiply  in  all  directions.  At  least  twenty  such 
works  now  stand  on  my  shelves,  the  latest  of  which 
(by  Selden  L.  Wliitcomb)  is  frankly  called  "The 
Study  of  a  Novel,"  and  boldly  begins :  "  This  volume 
is  the  result  of  practical  experience  in  teaching  the 
novel,  and  its  aim  is  primarily  pedagogical." 

The  objections  usually  formulated  against  novels 
as  a  university  study  are  about  as  follows :  {a)  the 
study  of  fiction  is  unacademic  —  that  is,  lacking  in 
dignity;  {b)  students  will  read  too  many  novels 
anyway,  and  the  emphasis  should  therefore  be  thrown 
on  other  forms  of  literary  art;  (f)  most  recent  and 
contemporary  fiction  is  worthless,  and  if  novels  are 
to  be  taught  at  all,  the  titles  selected  should  be 
confined  entirely  to  recognised  classics;  {d)  many 
of  the  novels  of  to-day  are  immoral,  and  the  reading 
of  them  will  corrupt  rather  than  develop  adolescent 
minds;  (c)  they  are  too  "easy,"  too  interesting,  and 
a  course  confined  to  them  is  totally  lacking  in  mental 
246 


APPENDIX  A 

discipline.     These  objections,  each  and  all,  contain 
some  truth,  and  demand  a  serious  answer. 

That  the  study  of  fiction  is  unacademic  is  a  weighty 
argument,  but  its  weight  is  the  mass  of  custom  and 
prejudice  rather  than  solid  thought.  In  old  times, 
the  curriculum  had  little  to  do  with  real  life,  so  that 
the  most  scholarly  professors  and  the  most  promising 
pupils  were  often  plentifully  lacking  in  common  sense. 
Students  gifted  with  real  independence  of  mind, 
marked  with  an  alert  interest  in  the  life  and  thought 
about  them,  chafed  irritably  under  the  old-fashioned 
course  of  study,  and  often  treated  it  with  neglect  or 
open  rebellion.  Wliat  Thomas  Gray  said  of  the 
Cambridge  curriculum  constitutes  a  true  indictment 
against  eighteenth-century  universities;  and  it  was 
not  until  very  recent  times  that  such  studies  as  history, 
European  literature,  modern  languages,  political 
economy,  natural  sciences,  and  the  fine  arts  were 
thought  to  have  equal  academic  dignity  with  the 
trinity  of  Latin,  Greek,  and  mathematics.  There 
are,  indeed,  many  able  and  conscientious  men  who 
still  believe  that  this  trinity  cannot  be  successfully 
rivalled  by  any  other  possible  group  of  studies. 
Now  the  novel  is  the  most  prominent  form  of  modern 
literary  art ;  and  if  modern  literature  is  to  be  studied 
at  all,  fiction  cannot  be  overlooked.  The  profound 
change  brought  about  in  university  curricula,  caused 
largely  by  the  elective  system,  is  simply  the  bringing 

247 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

of  college  courses  of  study  into  closer  contact  with 
human  life,  and  the  recognition  that  what  young  men 
need  is  a  general  preparation  to  live  a  life  of  active 
usefulness  in  modem  social  relations. 

That  students  read  too  many  novels  anyway  — 
that  is,  in  proportion  to  their  reading  in  history  and 
biography  —  is  probably  true.  But  the  primary 
object  of  a  course  in  novel-reading  is  not  to  make 
the  student  read  more  novels,  instead  of  less,  nor  to 
substitute  the  reading  of  fiction  for  the  reading  of 
other  books.  The  real  object  is  (after  a  cheerful  rec- 
ognition of  the  fact  that  he  will  read  novels  any- 
way) to  persuade  him  to  read  them  intelligently, 
to  observe  the  difference  between  good  novels  and 
bad,  and  so  to  become  impatient  and  disgusted  with 
cheap,  sensational,  and  counterfeit  specimens  of 
the  novelist's  art. 

"  The  common  problem,  yours,  mine,  everyone's, 
Is  —  not  to  fancy  what  were  fair  in  life 
Provided  it  could  be  —  but,  finding  first 
What  may  be,  then  find  how  to  make  it  fair 
Up  to  our  means:  a  very  different  thing! 
No  abstract  intellectual  plan  of  life 
Quite  irrespective  of  life's  plainest  laws, 
But  one,  a  man,  who  is  man  and  nothing  more, 
May  lead  within  a  world  which  (by  your  leave) 
Is  Rome  or  London,  not  Fool's  Paradise." 

That  much  of  contemporary  fiction  is  worthless, 
and  that  the  novels  selected  should  be  classics,  is 

248 


APPENDIX  A 

a  twofold  statement,  of  which  the  first  phrase  is 
true  and  the  second  a  non  sequitur.  Much  ancient 
and  mcdic-cval  literature  read  in  college  is  worthless 
in  itself;  it  is  read  because  it  illustrates  the  language, 
or  represents  some  literary  form,  or  because  it  throws 
light  on  the  customs  and  ideas  of  the  time.  The  fact 
that  a  certain  obscure  work  was  written  in  the  year 
1 200  docs  not  necessarily  prove  that  it  is  more 
valuable  for  study  than  one  written  in  1909.  Now 
it  so  happens  that  the  modern  novel  has  become 
more  and  more  the  mirror  of  modern  ideas ;  and  for 
a  student  who  really  wishes  to  know  what  people  are 
thinking  about  all  over  the  world  to-day,  the  novels 
of  Tolstoi,  Bjornson,  Sudermann,  and  Thomas  Hardy 
cannot  wisely  be  neglected.  Why  should  the  study 
of  the  contemporary  novel  and  the  contemporary 
drama  be  tabooed  when  in  other  departments  of  re- 
search the  aim  is  to  be  as  contemporary  as  possible  ? 
We  have  courses  in  social  conditions  that  actually 
investigate  slums.  I  am  not  for  a  moment  pleading 
that  the  study  of  modern  novels  and  modern  art 
should  supplant  the  study  of  immortal  masterpieces ; 
but  merely  that  they  should  have  their  rightful 
place,  and  not  be  regarded  either  with  contempt 
or  as  unworthy  of  serious  treatment.  The  two 
most  beneficial  ways  to  study  a  novel  are  to 
regard  it,  first,  as  an  art-form,  and  secondly  as  a 
manifestation  of  intellectual  life;  from  neither  point 

249 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

of  view  should  the  contemporary  novel  be  wholly 
neglected. 

That  many  of  the  novels  of  to-day  are  immoral 
is  true,  but  i*v  is  still  more  true  of  the  classics.  The 
proportion  of  really  immoral  books  to  the  total  pro- 
duction is  probably  less  to-day  than  it  ever  was 
before;  in  fact,  there  are  an  immense  number  of 
excellent  contemporary  novels  which  are  spotless, 
something  that  cannot  be  said  of  the  classics  of  an- 
tiquity or  of  the  great  majority  of  literary  works  pub- 
lished prior  to  the  nineteenth  century.  If  immorality 
be  the  cry,  what  shall  we  say  about  Aristophanes  or 
Ovid  ?  How  does  the  case  stand  with  the  comedies 
of  Drydcn  or  with  the  novels  of  Henry  Fielding? 
No,  it  is  undoubtedly  true  that  the  teacher  who 
handles  modern  fiction  can  more  easily  find  a  com- 
bination of  literary  excellence  and  purity  of  tone  than 
he  could  in  any  previous  age. 

That  a  course  in  novels  lacks  mental  discipline 
and  is  too  easy  depends  mainly  on  the  teacher  and 
his  method.  As  regards  the  time  consumed  in 
preparation,  it  is  probable  that  a  student  would 
expend  three  or  four  times  the  number  of  hours 
on  a  course  in  novels  than  he  would  in  ancient 
languages,  where,  unfortunately,  the  use  of  a 
translation  is  all  but  universal;  and  the  trans- 
lation is  fatal  to  mental  discipline.  But  it  is 
not    merely   a   matter   of    hours;    novels    can    be 

250 


APPENDIX  A 

taught  in  such  a  way  as  to  produce  the  best  kind 
of  mental  discipline,  which  consists,  first,  in  com- 
pelling a  student  to  do  his  own  thinking,  and, 
secondly,  to  train  him  properly  in  the  expression 
of  what  ideas  he  has. 


251 


APPENDIX   B 

THE    TEACHER'S    ATTITUDE    TOWARD 
CONTEMPORARY   LITERATURE 

Two  things  must  be  admitted  at  the  start  —  first, 
that  no  person  is  qualified  to  judge  the  value  of 
new  books  who  is  not  well  acquainted  with  the  old 
ones ;  second,  that  the  only  test  of  the  real  greatness 
of  any  book  is  Time.  It  is,  of  course,  vain  to  hope 
that  any  remarks  made  on  contemporary  authors 
will  not  be  misrepresented,  but  I  have  placed  two 
axioms  at  the  beginning  of  this  article  in  order  to 
clear  the  ground.  I  am  not  advocating  the  abandon- 
ment of  the  study  of  Homer  and  Vergil,  or  proposing 
to  substitute  in  their  stead  the  study  of  Hall  Caine, 
Mrs.  Ward,  and  Marie  Corelli.  I  do  not  believe  that 
Mr.  Pinero  is  a  greater  dramatist  than  Sophokles, 
or  that  the  mental  discipline  gained  by  reading  The 
Jungle  is  equivalent  to  that  obtained  in  the  mastery 
of  Euclid. 

I  am  merely  pleading  that  every  thoughtful  man 

who  is  alive  in  this  year  of  grace  should  not  attempt 

to  live  his  whole  life  in  the  year  400  B.C.,  even  though 

he  be  so  humble  an  individual  as  a  teacher.     The 

252 


APPENDIX  B 

very  word  "teacher"  means  something  more  than 
"scholar";  and  scholarship  means  something  more 
than  the  knowledge  of  things  that  are  dead.  A  good 
teacher  will  remember  that  the  boys  and  girls  who 
come  under  his  instruction  are  not  all  going  to  spend 
their  lives  in  the  pursuit  of  technical  learning.  It 
is  his  business  to  influence  them;  and  he  cannot 
exert  a  powerful  influence  without  some  interest  in 
the  life  and  thought  of  his  own  day,  in  the  environ- 
ment in  which  his  pupils  exist.  I  believe  that  the 
cardinal  error  of  a  divinity-school  education  is  that 
the  candidate  for  the  ministry  spends  over  half  his 
time  and  energy  in  the  laborious  study  of  Hebrew, 
whereas  he  should  study  the  subjects  that  primarily 
interest  not  his  colleagues,  but  his  audience. 

"  Priests 
Should  study  passion ;  how  else  cure  mankind, 
Who  come  for  help  in  passionate  extremes  ?  " 

A  preacher  who  knows  Hebrew,  Greek,  systematic 
theology.  New  Testament  interpretation,  and  who 
knows  nothing  about  literature,  history,  art,  and 
human  nature,  is  grotesquely  unfitted  for  his  noble 
profession. 

In  every  age  it  has  been  the  fashion  to  ridicule  and 
decry  the  literary  production  of  that  particular  time. 
I  suppose  that  the  greatest  creative  period  that  the 
world  has  ever  known  occurred  in  England  during 
the  years  1590-1616,  and  here  is  what  Ben  Jonson 

253 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

said  in  1607:  "Now,  especially  in  dramatic,  or, 
as  they  term  it,  stage-poetry,  nothing  but  ribaldry, 
profanation,  blasphemy,  all  license  of  offence  to 
God  and  man  is  practised.  I  dare  not  deny  a  great 
part  of  this,  and  am  sorry  I  dare  not."  In  1610  he 
wrote,  "  Thou  wert  never  more  fair  in  the  way  to  be 
cozened,  than  in  this  age,  in  poetry,  especially  in 
plays;  wherein,  now  the  concupiscence  of  dances 
and  of  antics  so  reigneth,  as  to  run  away  from  nature 
and  be  afraid  of  her,  is  the  only  point  of  art  that 
tickles  the  spectators."  And  in  1611  he  said,  "In 
so  thick  and  dark  an  ignorance  as  now  almost  covers 
the  age  .  .  .  you  dare,  in  these  jig-given  times, 
to  countenance  a  legitimate  poem."  And  the  age 
which  he  damned  is  now  regarded  as  the  world's 
high-water  mark ! 

A  man  who  teaches  physics  and  chemistry  is 
supposed  to  be  familiar  not  only  with  the  history 
of  his  subject,  but  its  latest  manifestations ;  with  the 
work  of  his  contemporaries.  A  man  who  teaches 
political  economy  and  sociology  must  read  the  most 
recent  books  on  these  themes  both  in  Europe  and 
America  —  nay,  he  must  read  the  newspapers  and 
study  the  markets,  or  he  will  be  outstripped  by  his 
own  pupils.  A  man  who  teaches  drawing  and 
painting  should  not  only  know  the  history  of  art,  but 
its  latest  developments.  And  yet,  when  the  teacher 
of  literature  devotes  a  small  portion  of  the  time  of  his 
254 


APPENDIX   B 

pupils  to  the  contemplation  of  contemporary  poets, 
novelists,  and  dramatists,  he  is  not  only  blamed 
for  doing  so,  but  some  teachers  who  are  ignorant 
of  the  writers  of  their  own  day  boast  of  their  ignorance 
with  true  academic  pride. 

A  teacher  cannot  read  every  book  that  appears; 
he  cannot  neglect  the  study  and  teaching  of  the  rec- 
ognised classics;  but  his  attitude  toward  the  writers 
of  his  own  time  should  not  be  one  of  either  indiffer- 
ence or  contempt.  The  teacher  of  English  literature 
should  not  be  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  discover 
the  name  of  an  author  whom  all  the  world  is  talking 
about.  And  I  believe  that  every  great  university 
should  offer,  under  proper  restrictions,  at  least  one 
course  in  the  contemporary  drama,  or  in  contem- 
porary fiction,  or  in  some  form  of  contemporary 
literary  art.  The  Germans  are  generally  regarded 
as  the  best  scholars  in  the  world,  and  they  never 
think  it  beneath  their  dignity  to  recognise  living 
authors  of  distinction.  While  the  British  public 
were  condemning  in  true  British  fashion  an  author 
whom  they  had  not  read  —  Henrik  Ibsen  —  Ger- 
man universities  were  offering  courses  exclusively 
devoted  to  the  study  of  his  works.  Imagine  a  course 
in  Ibsen  at  Oxford ! 

But  not  only  should  the  teacher  take  an  intelli- 
gent interest  in  contemporary  authors  who  have  al- 
ready won  a  wide  reputation,  he  should  be  eternally 

255 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

watchful,  eternally  hopeful  —  ready  to  detect  signs 
of  promise  in  the  first  books  of  writers  whose  names 
are  wholly  unknown.  This  does  not  mean  that  he 
should  exaggerate  the  merits  of  every  fresh  work,  nor 
beslobber  with  praise  every  ambitious  quill-driver. 
On  the  contrary,  —  if  there  be  occasion  to  give  an 
opinion  at  all,  —  he  should  not  hesitate  to  condemn 
what  seems  to  him  shallow,  trivial,  or  counterfeit,  no 
matter  how  big  a  "seller"  the  object  in  his  vision 
may  be.  But  his  sympathies  should  be  warm  and 
keen,  and  his  mind  always  responsive,  when  a  new 
planet  swims  into  his  ken.  One  of  the  most  joy- 
ful experiences  of  my  life  came  to  me  some  years 
ago  when  I  read  Bob,  Son  of  Battle  with  the  un- 
known name  Alfred  Ollivant  on  the  title-page. 
It  was  worth  wading  through  tons  of  trash  to  find 
such  a  jewel. 

And  is  the  literature  of  our  generation  really 
slight  and  mean?  By  "Contemporary  Literature" 
we  include  perhaps  authors  who  have  written  or  who 
are  writing  during  the  lifetime  of  those  who  arc  now, 
let  us  say,  thirty  years  old.  Contemporary  literature 
would  then  embrace,  in  the  drama,  Ibsen,  Bjornson, 
Victor  Hugo,  Henri  Bccque,  Rostand,  Maeterlinck, 
Sudermann,  Hauptmann,  Pinero,  Jones,  and  others; 
in  the  novel,  Turgencv,  Tolstoi,  Dostoievsky,  Bjorn- 
son, Hugo,  Daudet,  Zola,  Maupassant,  Heyse, 
Sudermann,  Hardy,  Meredith,  Stevenson,  Kipling, 
256 


APPENDIX  B 

Howells,  Mark  Twain,  and  many  others ;  in  poetry, 
to  speak  of  English  writers  alone,  Tennyson,  Brown- 
ing, Arnold,  Swinburne,  ^Morris,  Kipling,  Phillips, 
Watson,  Thompson,  and  others.  Those  who  live 
one  hundred  years  from  now  will  know  more  about 
the  permanent  value  of  the  works  of  these  men  than 
we  do ;  but  are  these  names  really  of  no  importance 
to  teachers  whose  speciality  is  literature  ? 


aS7 


APPENDIX  C 

TWO  POEMS 

It  is  interesting  to  compare  the  two  following 
poems,  written  by  two  distinguished  English  novel- 
ists, both  men  of  fine  intelligence,  noble  character, 
and  absolute  sincerity.  Mr.  Hardy's  poem  ap- 
peared in  the  Fortnightly  Review,  for  i  January,  1907. 

NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 
By  Thomas  Hardy 

"I  have  finished  another  year,"  said  God, 

"In  grey,  green,  white,  and  brown; 
I  have  strewn  the  leaf  upon  the  sod, 
Sealed  up  the  worm  within  the  clod, 
And  let  the  last  sun  down." 

"And  what's  the  good  of  it?"  I  said, 

"What  reasons  made  You  call 
From  formless  void  this  earth  I  tread, 
When  nine-and-ninety  can  be  read 
Why  nought  should  be  at  all? 

"Yea,  Sire;  why  shaped  You  us,  'who  in 

This  tabernacle  groan '  ?  — 
If  ever  a  joy  be  found  herein, 
Such  joy  no  man  had  wished  to  win 

If  he  had  never  known  1" 

Then  He:   "My  labours  logiclesa 
You  may  explain;   not  I: 

258 


APPENDIX  C 

Sense-sealed  I  have  wrought,  without  a  guess 
That  I  evolved  a  Consciousness 
To  ask  for  reasons  why ! 

"Strange,  that  ephemeral  creatures  who 

By  my  own  ordering  are. 
Should  see  the  shortness  of  my  view, 
Use  ethic  tests  I  never  knew, 

Or  made  provision  for!" 

He  sank  to  raptness  as  of  yore, 

And  opening  New  Year's  Day 
Wove  it  by  rote  as  theretofore, 
And  went  on  working  evermore 

In  his  unweeting  way. 

DOMINUS  ILLUMINATIO  MEA 
By  Richard  Doddridge  Blackmore 


In  the  hour  of  death,  after  this  life's  whim, 
When  the  heart  beats  low,  and  the  eyes  grow  dim, 
And  pain  has  exhausted  every  limb  — 
The  lover  of  the  Lord  shall  trust  in  Him. 


When  the  will  has  forgotten  the  life-long  aim, 
And  the  mind  can  only  disgrace  its  fame. 
And  a  man  is  uncertain  of  his  own  name, 
The  power  of  the  Lord  shall  fill  this  frame. 

3 
When  the  last  sigh  is  heaved  and  the  last  tear  shed, 
And  the  coffin  is  waiting  beside  the  bed, 
And  the  widow  and  the  child  forsake  the  dead. 
The  angel  of  the  Lord  shall  lift  this  head. 

4 
For  even  the  purest  delight  may  pall, 
The  power  must  fail,  and  the  pride  must  fall, 
And  the  love  of  the  dearest  friends  grow  small  — 
But  the  glory  of  the  Lord  is  all  in  all. 

259 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

This  poem,  with  the  signature  "R.  D.  B.  in 
memoriam  M.  F.  G."  first  appeared  in  the  Uni- 
versity Magazine  in  1879.  Although  it  has  been 
included  in  some  anthologies,  the  author's  name  was 
kept  an  absolute  secret  until  July,  1909.  In  the 
Aihenmim  for  3  July,  1909,  was  printed  an  interesting 
letter  from  Agnes  E.  Cook,  by  which  we  learn  that 
the  late  Mr.  Blackmore  actually  dreamed  this  poem, 
in  its  exact  language  and  metre.  The  letter  from  the 
author  which  was  published  in  the  same  AthencBum 
article,  gives  the  facts  connected  with  this  extraor- 
dinary dream. 

Tedd''  Jan^  5*^    1879. 
My  Dear  Sir. 

Having  lately  been  at  the  funeral  of  a 
most  dear  relation  I  was  there  again  (in  a  dream) 
last  night,  and  heard  the  mourners  sing  the  lines 
enclosed,  which  impressed  me  so  that  I  was  able  to 
write  them  without  change  of  a  word  this  morning. 
I  never  heard  or  read  them  before  to  my  knowledge. 
They  do  not  look  so  well  on  paper  as  they  sounded  ; 
but  if  you  like  to  print  them,  here  they  are.  Only 
please  not  to  put  my  name  beyond  initials  or  send 
mc  money  for  them.  With  all  good  wishes  to  Mrs. 
Cook  and  yourself 

Very  truly  yours 

R.  D.  Blackmore. 
K  Cook  Esq"  L.L.D. 

260 


LIST    OF   PUBLICATIONS 
By  Andrew  Keogh 

[The  twelve  authors  are  in  alphabetical  order.  The  books 
of  each  are  in  chronological  order,  the  assigned  dates  being 
those  of  the  publishers'  trade  journals  in  which  the  fact  of 
publication  was  first  recorded.  Novels  originally  issued  as 
serials  have  a  note  giving  the  name  and  date  of  the  original 
magazine.] 

BJORNSTJERNE  BJORNSON 

8  December  1832- 
[Including  only  works  that  have  been  translated  into  English.] 

1857,  Sept.  I.     Synnove    Solbakken.      Christiania.      (Illus- 

treret  Folkeblad,  1857.) 

—  Trust  and  Trial.     [A  translation  by  Alary 

Howitt.]      London,    Hurst,    Sept.     15, 
1858. 

—  Love  and  Life  in   Norway.     Tr.   by  the 

Hon.  Augusta  Bethell  and  A.  Plesner. 
London,  Cassell  [1870]. 

—  Synnove  Solbakken.     Tr.  by  R.  B.  Ander- 

son.    Boston,  Houghton,   18S1. 

—  Synnove  Solbakken.     Given  in  English  by 

Julie  Sutter.     London,  Macmillan,  1S81. 

1858.  Ame.  Bergen,  1858  [1859]. 

—  Arne;   or,  Peasant  Life  in  Norway.     Tr. 

by  a  Norwegian.     Bergen  [1861]. 

—  Arne:    a   Sketch  of   Norwegian  Country 

261 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

Life.  Tr.  by  A.  Plesner  and  S.  Rugely- 
Powers.  London,  Strahan,  Aug.  i, 
1866. 

—  Arne.    Tr.  by  R.  B.  Anderson.    Boston, 

Houghton,  1881. 

—  Arne,  and  the  Fisher  Lassie.     Tr.  with  an 

introd.  by  W.  Low.     London,  Bell,  1890. 
i860.  En  glad  Gut.    Christiania.     (AftenbladeL) 

—  Ovind.     Tr.  by  S.  and  E.  Hjerleid.     Lon- 

don, 1869. 

—  The  Happy  Boy.    Tr.  by  Helen  R.  Gade. 

Boston,  Sever,  1870. 

—  A  Happy  Boy.     Tr.  by  R.  B.  Anderson. 

Boston,  Houghton,  1881. 

—  The  Happy  Lad,  and  other  Tales.     Lon- 

don, Blackie,  1882. 
1862.  Sigurd  Slembe.     Copenhagen. 

—  Sigurd  Slembe:    a  Dramatic  Trilogy.     Tr. 

by  W.  M.  Payne.     Boston,  Houghton, 
Oct.  20,  1888. 
1865.  De  Nygifte.     Copenhagen. 

—  The  Newly  Married  Couple.     Tr.  by  S. 

and    E.    Hjerleid.      London,   Simpkin, 
1870. 
1868,  Apr.  Fiskerjentcn.     Copenhagen. 

—  The  Fisher-Maiden:    a  Norwegian  Tale. 

From  the  author's  German  edition  by 
M.  E.  Niles.     N.Y.,  Holt,  1869. 

—  The  Fishing  Girl.     Tr.  by  A.  Plcsncr  and 

F.  Richardson.     London,  Cassell  [1870]. 

—  The    Fisher    Girl.     Tr.    by    S.    and    E. 

Hjerleid.       London,      Simpkin,      1871 
[1870]. 

—  The     Fisher     Maiden.     Tr.     by    R.     B. 

Anderson.     Boston,  Houghton,  1882. 

262 


LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS 

—  Arne  and  the  Fisher  Lassie.     Tr.  with  an 

introd.   by  W.    Low.      London,   Bell, 
1890. 
1873.  Brude-Slaatten :  Fortaelling.     Copenhagen. 

—  Life  by  the  Fells  and  Fiords.     A  Norwe- 

gian Sketch-book  [containing  a  transla- 
tion of  the  Bridal  March].  London, 
Strahan,  1879. 

—  The  Bridal  March  and  other  Stories.     Tr. 

by  R.  B.  Anderson.     Boston,  1882. 

—  The  Wedding  March.     Tr.  by  M.  Ford. 

N.Y.,  Munro,  1882. 
1877,  Oct.  Magnhild:  en  Fort£elling.     Copenhagen. 

—  Magnhild.     Tr.     by     R.     B.     Anderson. 

Boston,  Houghton,  1883  [1882]. 
1879,  A^g-  Kaptejn  Mansana.     Copenhagen. 

—  Captain  Mansana,  and  other  Stories.     Tr. 

by  R.  B.  Anderson.  Cambridge,  Mass., 
1882. 

—  Captain   Mansana.     N.Y.,  Munro,  1882. 

—  Captain  Mansana,  and  Mother's  Hands. 

N.Y.,  Macmillan,  1897. 

1883,  Sept.  En  Hanske:  Skuespil.     Copenhagen. 

—  A  Glove:   a  Prose  Play.    {Poet-Lore,  Jan.^ 

July,  1892.) 

—  A   Gauntlet.     Tr.   by   H.   L.    Braekstad. 

London,  French  [1890]. 

—  A    Gauntlet.     Tr.    by    Osman    Edwards. 

London,  Longmans,   1894. 
Nov.  Over  ^Evne.     Fy^rste  Stykke.     Copenhagen. 

—  Pastor  Sang:   being  the  Norwegian  drama 

Over  iEvne  [Part  i].  Tr.  by  W. 
Wilson.     London,  Longmans,  1893. 

1884,  Oct.  Det  flager  i  Byen  og  pa  Havnen.     Copen- 

hagen. 

263 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

—  The  Heritage  of  the   Kurts.     Tr.  by  C. 

Fairfax.     London,  Heinemann,  1892. 
1887,  Aug.  Stj^.    (Originally  published   in    1882   in   I. 

Hfte  Nyt  Tidsskrift.) 

—  Magnhild   and  Dust.     N.Y.,  Macmillan, 

1897. 
1889,  Oct.  Pa  Guds  Veje.     Copenhagen. 

—  In  God's  Way.     N.Y.,  Lovell,  1889. 

—  In  God's  way:   a  Novel.     Tr.  by  E.  Car- 

michael.     London,  Heinemann,  1890. 

1895,  Dec.  Over  ^vne.    Andet  Stykke.    Copenhagen. 

1898,  Nov.         Paul    Lange    og    Tora    Parsberg.      Copen- 
hagen. 

—  Tr.  by  H.  L.  Braekstad.    London,  N. Y., 

Harper,  Feb.,  1899. 
1901,  Apr.  Laboremus.     Copenhagen. 

—  Laboremus.     London,  Chapman,  June  8, 

1901.     (First  published  as  literary  sup- 
plement to  the  Fortnightly  Review,  May, 
1901.) 
1906,  Oct.  Mary:    Fortaelling.     Copenhagen. 

—  Mary.      Tr.    by    Mary    Morison.     N.Y., 

Macmillan,  Sept.  4,  1909. 

In  addition  to  the  works  listed  above,  most  of  the  tales  and 
sketches  in  Bjornson's  three  collections  (Smaastykker,  Bergen, 
i860;  Fortaellingcr,  Copenhagen,  1872;  Nye  Fortaillingcr, 
Copenhagen,  1894)  have  appeared  in  English  in  one  or  other 
of  the  collections  listed  below:  — 

Life  by  the  Fells  and  Fiords:  a  Norwegian  Sketch-book.  Lon- 
don, Strahan  [1879].  Contents:  Arne.  —  The  Bridal 
March. — The  Churchyard  and  the  Railroad.  —  The 
Father.  —  Faithfulness.  —  Thrond.  —  Blakken.  —  A 
Life's  Enigma.  —  Checked  Imagination. — The  Eagle's 

264 


LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS 

Nest.  —  A  Dangerous  Wooing.  —  The  Brothers'  Quar- 
rel.—  The    Eagle    and   the   Fir.  —  Poems. 

Works.  American  edition,  translated  by  R.  B.  Anderson. 
3V.  Boston,  Houghton,  1884.  Contents:  v.  i.  Synnove 
Solbakkcn.  —  Arne.  —  Early  Tales  and  Sketches:  The 
Railroad  and  the  Churchyard.  — Thrond.  —  A  Danger- 
ous Wooing.  —  The  Bear-Hunter.  —  The  Eagle's  Nest.  — 
V.  2.  A  Happy  Boy. — The  Fisher  Maiden.  —  Tales 
and  Sketches :  Blakken.  —  Fidelity.  —  A  Problem  of  Life. 
—  V.  3.  The  Bridal  March.  —  Captain  Mansana.  — 
Magnhild.  —  Dust. 

Novels.  Edited  by  Edmund  Gosse.  London,  Heinemann ; 
N.Y.,  Macmillan.  13  v.  1894-1909.  Contents:  v.  i. 
Synnove  Solbakken.  Given  in  English  by  Julie  Sutter. 
A  new  ed.  .  .  .     1895.  —  v.  2.     Arne.     Tr.  by  W.  Low. 

1895.  —  V.  3.     A  Happy  Boy.     Tr.  by  Mrs.  W.  Archer. 

1896.  —  V.  4.  The  Fisher  Lass.  1896.  —  v.  5.  The 
Bridal  March,  and  One  Day.  1896.  —  v.  6.  Magnhild 
and  Dust.  1897.  —  v.  7.  Captain  Mansana,  and  Moth- 
er's Hands.  1897.  —  v.  8.  Absalom's  Hair,  and  A  Pain- 
ful Memory.  1898.  —  v.  9-10.  In  God's  Way.  Tr.  by 
E.  Carmichael.  1908.  —  v.  11-12.  The  Heritage  of  the 
Kurts.  Tr.  by  Cecil  Fairfax.  1908.  —  v.  13.  Mary. 
Tr.  by  Mary  Morison.     1909. 

RICHARD  DODDRIDGE  BLACKMORE 

7  June  1825-20  January  1900 

1854,  May  I.  Poems  by  Melanter.     London,  Saunders. 
July.  Epullia,  and  other  Poems.     By  the  Author 

of  Poems  by  Melanter.     London,  Hope. 

1855,  Jan.  16.         The  Bugle  of  the  Black  Sea;    or,  The 

British    in    the    East.     By    Melanter. 
London,  Hardwicke. 
i860,  Oct.  27.         The   Fate  of  Franklin.     London,   Hard- 
wicke. 

265 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

1862,  July  31.  The  Farm  and  Fruit  of  Old :  a  Translation 
in  Verse  of  the  first  and  second  Georgics 
of  Virgil.  By  a  Market  Gardener. 
London,  Low. 

1864,  Mar.  31.  Clara  Vaughan :  a  Novel.  3  vols.  Lon- 
don, Macmillan. 

1866,  Sept.  I.  Cradock   Nowell:    A  Tale   of   the   New 

Forest.  3  vols.  London,  Chapman. 
(Mactnillan's  Magazine,  May,  1865- 
Aug.,  1866.) 

1869,  Apr.  I.  Lorna  Doone:    a  Romance  ot  Exmoor. 

3  vols.     London,  Low. 

1871,  Apr.  I.  The  Georgics  of  Virgil,  translated.     Lon- 

don, Low. 

1872,  Aug.  2.  The   Maid   of    Sker.     3    vols.    London, 

Blackwood.  {Blackwood' s  Magazine, 
Aug.,  1871-July,  1872.) 

1875,  May  I.  Alice    Lorraine:     a    Tale    of   the    South 

Downs.  3  vols.  London,  Low.  {Black- 
wood's   Magazine,    Mar.,     1874-Apr., 

1875.) 

1876,  June  I.  Cripps  the   Carrier:    a  Woodland  Tale. 

3  vols.     London,  Low. 

1877,  Nov.  16.        Erema;    or,   My   Father's   Sin.      3   vols. 

London,  Smith,  Elder.  {Cornhill  Mag- 
azine, Nov.,  1876-N0V.,  1877.) 

1880,  May  15.         Mary  Anerley:  a  Yorkshire  Tale.     3  vols. 

London,  Low.  {Eraser's  Magazine, 
July,  1879-Sept.,    1880.) 

1881,  Dec.  31.         Christowell:    a  Dartmoor  Tale.     3  vols. 

London,    Low.      {Good    Words,    Jan.- 

Dcc,    1881.) 
1884,  May  15.         The  Remarkable  History  of  Sir  Thomas 

Upmore.     2  vols.     London,  Low. 
1887,  Mar.  I.  Springhavcn :    a  Tale  of  the  Great  War. 

266 


LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS 

3    vols.      London,      Low.       (Harper's 
Magazine,  Apr.,   1886- Apr.,   1887.) 
1889,  Dec.  31.  Kit  and  Kitty :  a  Story  of  West  Middlesex. 

3  vols.     London,  Low,  1890  [1889]. 

1894,  Aug.  25.         Perlycross:    a  Tale  of  the  Western  Hills. 

3  vols.     London,  Low. 

1895,  June  22.        Fringilla:   Some  Tales  in  Verse.    London, 

Mathews. 

1896,  Mar.  21.        Tales  from  the  Telling-House.     London, 

Low. 

1897,  Nov.  27.        Dariel:   a  Romance  of  Surrey.     London, 

Blackwood. 

SAMUEL  LANGHORNE  CLEMENS 

30  November  1835- 

1867,  May  I.  The  Celebrated  Jumping  Frog  of  Calave- 

ras County,  and  other  Sketches.  Edited 
by  John  Paul.     N.Y.,  Amer.  News  Co. 

1869,  Oct.  I.  The   Innocents  Abroad;    or.   The   New 

Pilgrim's  Progress.  Hartford,  Ameri- 
can Publ.  Co. 

1871.  Mark  Twain's  Autobiography  and  First 

Romance.    N.Y.,  Sheldon. 

1872,  Feb.  29.        Roughing  it.     Hartford,  American  Publ. 

Co. 

1874,  Jan.  3.  The  Gilded  Age:  a  Tale  of  To-Day.     By 

Mark  Twain  and  Charles  Dudley  War- 
ner.    Hartford,  American  Publ.  Co. 
Mark  Twain's  Sketches.     [No.  i.]     N.Y., 
American  News  Co. 

1875,  Mark   Twain's   Sketches,    new   and   old. 

Now  first  published  in  complete  form. 
Hartford,  American  Publ.  Co. 

1876,  Dec.  23.        The  Adventures  of  Tom  Sawyer.     Hart- 

ford, American  Publ.  Co. 

267 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

1877,  Sept.  22.        A  True  Ston^,  and  The  Recent  Carnival 

of  Crime.     Boston,  Osgood. 

1878,  Mar.  23.        Punch,     Brothers,     Punch !     and     other 

Sketches.     N.Y.,  Slote. 
1880,  July  10.         A  Tramp  Abroad.     Hartford,  American 
Publ.  Co. 

1882,  Jan.  21.         The    Prince    and    the    Pauper.    Boston, 

Osgood. 
June  17.        The  Stolen  White  Elephant,  etc.     Boston, 
Osgood. 

1883,  July  7.  Life  on  the  Mississippi.     Boston,  Osgood. 

1884,  Dec.  31.         The    Adventures    of    Huckleberry    Finn, 

Tom    Sawyer's      Comrade.       London, 
Chatto.    (N.Y.,  Webster,  Mar.  14, 1885.) 
1889,  Dec.  28.        A  Connecticut  Yankee  in  King  Arthur's 
Court:    a  Satire.     N.Y.,  Webster. 

1892,  Apr.  9.  Merry  Tales.     N.Y.,  Webster. 

1893,  Apr,  29.         The  £1,000,000  Bank-note,  and  other  new 

stories.     N.Y.,  Webster. 

1894,  Mar.  2.  The  Tragedy  of  Pudd'nhead  Wilson,  and 

the  comedy  Those  Extraordinary  Twins. 
Hartford,  American  Publ.  Co. 
Apr.  15.        Tom    Sawyer   Abroad,    by    Huck   Finn. 
Edited  by  Mark  Twain.    N.Y.,  Webster. 

1896,  May  9.  Personal   Recollections  of  Joan  of  Arc. 

By  the  Sieur  Louis  de  Conte  (her  page 
and  secretary).  Freely  translated  out  of 
the  ancient  French  into  modern  English 
from  the  original  unpublished  manu- 
script in  the  National  Archives  of  France, 
by  Jean  Franfois  Alden.    N.Y.,  Harper. 

1897,  Apr.  3.  The  American  Claimant,  and  other  Stories 

and  Sketches.     N.Y.,  Harper. 
Apr.  17.         How  to   tell   a  story,  and  other  Essays. 
N.Y.,  Harper. 
268 


LIST   OF  PUBLICATIONS 

1897,  Dec.  II.  Following  the  Equator:  a  Journey  around 
the  World.  Hartford,  American  Publ. 
Co.  (London,  Chatto,  under  title 
"  More  Tramps  Abroad.") 

1900,  June  23.  The  Man  that  Corrupted  Hadleyburg,  and 
other  Stories  and  Essays.    N.Y.,  Harper. 

1902,  Apr.  19.  A  Double-barrelled  Detective  Story.  N.  Y., 
Harper. 

1904,  Apr.  16.         E.xtracts   from   Adam's   Diary,  translated 

from  the  Original  Manuscript.     N.Y., 
Harper. 
Oct.  I.  A  Dog's  Tale.    N.Y.,  Harper. 

1905,  Oct.  7.  Editorial  Wild  Oats.     N.Y.,  Harper. 
Nov.  4.  King  Leopold's  Soliloquy:   a  Defence  of 

his  Congo  Rule.     Boston,  Warren. 

1906,  June  16.        Eve's  Diary,  translated  from  the  Original 

Manuscript.     N.Y.,  Harper. 
Oct.  13.         The  $30,000  Bequest,  and  other  Stories. 
N.Y.,  Harper. 

1907,  Feb.  16.         Christian  Science,  with  notes    containing 

corrections  to  date.     N.Y.,  Harper. 
Nov.  9.  A  Horse's  Tale.     N.Y.,  Harper. 

1909,  Apr.  17.         Is  Shakespeare  dead?     From  my  Autobi- 
ography.    N.Y.,  Harper. 
Oct.  23.         Extract  from  Captain  Stormfield's  Visit  to 
Heaven.     N.Y.,  Harper. 

WILLIAM   DE   MORGAN 
16  November  1839- 

1906,  July  28.         Joseph    Vance:     an     ill-written     Autobi- 

ography.   London,  Heinemann.    (N.Y., 
Holt,  Sept.  22.) 

1907,  June  15.        Alice-for-Short:     a    Dichronism.       N.Y., 

Holt.     (London,  Heinemann,  June  29.) 

269 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

1908,  Feb.  8.  Somehow  Good.     N.Y.,  Holt.     (London, 

Heinemann,  Feb.    15.) 

1909,  Nov.  16.        It  Never  Can  Happen  Again.     N.Y.,  Holt. 

(London,  Heinemann,  2  v.) 

THOMAS  HARDY 

2  June  1840- 

1871,  Apr.  I.  Desperate  Remedies:    a  Novel.     3  vols. 

London,  Tinsley. 

1872,  Dec.  9.  Under   the    Greenwood   Tree:    a   Rural 

Painting  of  the  Dutch  School.  2  vols. 
London,  Tinsley. 

1873,  June  2.  A  Pair  of  Blue  Eyes:   a  Novel.    3  vols. 

London,  Tinsley.  (Tinsley' s  Magazine, 
Sept.,  1872-July,   1873.) 

1874,  Dec.  8.  Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd.     2  vols. 

London,  Smith,  Elder.  (Cornhill  Maga- 
azine,  Jan. -Dec,  1874.) 

1876,  Apr.  15.  The  Hand  of  Ethelberta:  a  Comedy  in 
Chapters.  2  vols.  London,  Smith, 
Elder.  (Cornhill  Magazine,  July,  1875- 
May,  1876.) 

1878,  Nov.  16.  The  Return  of  the  Native.  3  vols.  Lon- 
don, Smith,  Elder.  (Belgravia,  Jan.- 
Dec,  1878.) 

1880,  Nov.  I.  The  Trumpet-Major:    a  Tale.     3   vols. 

London,  Smith,  Elder.  (Good  Words, 
Jan. -Dec,  1880.) 

1881,  Dec.  31.         A  Laodicean;    or,  The  Castle  of  the  De 

Stancys:  a  Story  of  To-day.  3  vols, 
London,  Low.  (Harper's  Magazine, 
Jan.,  i88i-Jan.,  1882.) 

1882,  Nov.  I.  Two     on     a     Tower:      a     Romance.     3 

vols.  London,  Low.     (Atlantic  Monthly, 
May-Dec,  1882.) 
270 


LIST    OF   PUBLICATIONS 

1884,  Jan.  25.  The  Romantic  Adventures  of  a  Milkmaid: 
a  Novel.  N.Y.,  Munro.  {Graphic, 
Summer  No.   for  1883.) 

1886,  June  I.  The  Mayor  of  Casterbridge :  the  Life  and 

Death  of  a  Man  of  Character.  2  vols. 
London,  Smith,  Elder.  {Graphic,  Jan. 
2-May  15,  1886.) 

1887,  Apr.  I.  The     Woodlanders.      3    vols.     London, 

Macmillan.  {Macmillan's  Magazine, 
May,  1886-April,  1887.) 

1888,  May  15.         Wessex  Tales,  Strange,  Lively,  and  Com- 

monplace.     2     vols.      London,    Mac- 
millan. 
1891,  June  6.  A    Group    of    Noble    Dames.     London, 

Osgood.  {Graphic,  Christmas  No., 
1890.) 
Dec.  12.  Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles :  a  Pure  Woman 
faithfully  presented.  3  vols.  London, 
Osgood,  1892  [1891].  {Graphic,  July  4- 
Dec.  26,  1891.) 

1894,  Feb.  24.         Life's   Little    Ironies:     a   Set   of   Tales. 

London,  Osgood. 

1895,  Nov.  9.  Jude    the    Obscure.    London,    Osgood. 

{Harper^s  Magazine,  Dec,  1894-Nov., 
1895.  Began  as  "The  Simpletons"; 
then  changed  its  title  to  "Hearts  In- 
surgent.") 

1897,  Mar.  20.        The  Well-Beloved:    A  Sketch  of  a  Tem- 

perament. London,  Osgood.  (The 
Pursuit  of  the  Well-Beloved,  Illustrated 
London  News,  Oct. -Dec.  1892.) 

1898,  Dec.  24.         Wessex  Poems,  and  Other  Verses.     Lon- 

don, Harper. 
1901,  Nov.  30.        Poems  of  the  Past  and  the  Present.    Lon- 
don, Harper. 

271 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

1904,  Jan.  23.         The  Dynasts:  a  Drama  of  the  Napoleonic 

Wars.     Part  i.     London,  Macmillan. 
1906,  Feb.  17.         The  Dynasts.     Part  2.     Macmillan. 
1908,  Feb.  22.        The  Dynasts.     Part  3.    Macmillan. 

WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS  , 

I  March  1837- 

1860.  Poems  of  Two  Friends.    By  John  James 

Piatt  and  W.  D.  Howells.  Colimibus, 
FoUett. 
Lives  and  Speeches  of  Abraham  Lincoln 
and  Hannibal  Hamlin.  N.Y.,  Town- 
send.  [The  Biography  of  Hamlin  is  by 
J.  L.  Hayes.] 

1866,  Aug.  15.        Venetian  Life.     N.Y.,  Hurd. 

1867,  Dec.  2.  Italian  Journeys.     N.Y.,  Hurd. 

1868,  Dec.  I.  No  Love    lost:    a    romance    of    travel. 

N.Y.    {Putnam's  Magazine,  Dec,  1868.) 

1871,  Jan.  2.  Suburban  Sketches.     N.Y.,  Hurd. 

1872,  Jan.  I.  Their  Wedding  Journey.    Boston,  Osgood. 

{Atlantic  Monthly,  July-Dec,  1871.) 

1873,  May  10.         A  Chance  Acquaintance.    Boston,  Osgood. 

{Atlantic  Monthly,  Jan.-June,  1873.) 
Sept.  27.        Poems.     Boston,  Osgood. 

1874,  Dec.  5.  A  Foregone  Conclusion.     Boston,  Osgood, 

1875  [1874].     {Atlantic  Monthly,  July- 
Dec,  1874.) 

1876,  Feb.  12.         A     Day's     Pleasure.      Boston,     Osgood. 

{Atlantic  Monthly,   July-Sept.,   1870.) 
Sept.  16.        Sketch    of    the    Life    and    Character    of 

Rutherford  B.  Hayes.     N.Y.,  Hurd. 
Dec  9.  The  Parlor  Car:   Farce.     Boston,  Osgood. 

{Atlantic  Monthly,  Sept.,  1876.) 

1877.  Apr.  28.         Outof  the  Question:  a  Comedy.     Boston, 

272 


Oct. 

13- 

i879, 

Mar. 

I. 

1880, 

June 

26. 

1881, 

Aug. 

6. 

Dec. 

10. 

1882, 

Oct. 

14. 

1883,  Apr. 

28. 

Sept. 

29. 

Dec. 

22. 

1884, 

Mar. 

22. 

May 

24. 

1885,  Jan. 

31- 

LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS 


Osgood.     (Atlantic  Monthly,  Feb.-Apr., 

1877.) 
A    Counterfeit    Presentment:     Comedy. 

Boston,     Osgood      (Atlantic    Monthly, 

Aug.-Oct.,  1877.) 
The    Lady    of    the    Aroostook.     Boston, 

Houghton.     (Atlantic    Monthly,    Nov., 

1878-Mar.,  1879.) 
The     Undiscovered      Country.      Boston, 

Houghton.     (Atlantic    Monthly,    Jan.- 

July,  1880.) 
A     Fearful     Responsibility,     and     other 

Stories.     Boston,  Osgood. 
Doctor  Breen's  Practice:    a  Novel.     Bos- 
ton, Osgood.     (Atlantic  Monthly,  Aug.- 

Dec,  1881.) 
A  Modern  Instance:    a  Novel.     Boston, 

Osgood.       (Century    Magazine,     Dec, 

i88i-Oct.,  1882.) 
The    Sleeping-Car:     a    Farce.     Boston, 

Osgood.     (Harper's    Christmas,    Dec, 

1882.) 
A  Woman's  Reason:    a  Novel.     Boston, 

Osgood.  (Century,  Feb.-Oct.,  1883.) 
A  Little  Girl  among  the  Old  Masters,  with 

Introduction  and  Comment   by  W.  D. 

Howells.     Boston,  Osgood,  1884  [1883]. 
The  Register:    Farce.     Boston,  Osgood. 

(Harper's  Magazine,   Dec,    1884.) 
Three  Villages.     Boston,  Osgood. 
Niagara     Revisited.      Chicago,     Dalziel. 

(Suppressed.)     (Atlantic  Monthly,  May, 

1883.) 
The  Elevator:    Farce.     Boston,   Osgood. 

(Harper's  Magazine,  Dec,  1884.) 

273 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN  NOVELISTS 

Aug.  22.  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham.  Boston,  Tick- 
nor.    {Century,  Nov.,  1884-Aug.,  1885.) 

Nov.  7.  Tuscan    Cities.     Boston,    Ticknor,    1886 

[1885].    {Century  Magazine,  Oct.,  1885.) 

1886,  Jan.  2.  The    Garroters:    Farce.     N.Y.,    Harper. 

{Harper's  Magazine,  Dec,  1885.) 
Feb.  27.  Indian  Summer.  Boston,  Ticknor.  {Har- 
per's Magazine,  July,  1885-Feb.,  1886.) 
Dec.  18.  The  Minister's  Charge;  or.  The  Apprentice- 
ship of  Lemuel  Barker.  Boston,  Tick- 
nor, 1887  [1886].  {Century  Magazine, 
Feb.-Dec,  1886.) 

1887,  Oct.  8.  Modern  Italian  Poets:    Essays  and  Ver- 

sions.    N.Y.,  Harper. 
Dec.  17.        April  Hopes.     N.Y.,  Harper,  1888  [1887]. 
{Harper's  Magazine,  Feb.-Nov.,  1887.) 

1888,  Aug.  II.        A  Sea-Change;    or.  Love's  Stowaway:    a 

lyricated     Farce.      Boston,     Ticknor. 
{Harper's  Weekly,  July  14,  1888.) 
Dec.  22.        Annie  Kilburn:   a  Novel.     N.Y.,  Harper, 
1889  [1888].   {Harper's  Magazine,  J\in&- 
Nov.,  1888.) 

1889,  Apr.  20.        The    Mouse-Trap,    and    other    Farces. 

N.Y.,     Harper.      (The    Mouse-Trap, 
Harper's  Magazine,  Dec,  1886.) 
Dec.  7.  A   Hazard   of   New   Fortunes:    a   Novel. 

N.Y.,  Harper,  1890  [1889].     {Harper's 
Weekly,  Mar.  23-Nov.  16,  1889.) 

1890,  June  7.  The  Shadow  of  a  Dream:  a  Story.     N.Y., 

Harper.  {Harper's  Magazine,  Mar.- 
May,  1890.) 
Oct.  18.  A  Boy's  Town,  described  for  Harper's 
Young  People.  N.Y.,  Harper.  {Har- 
per's Young  People,  Apr.  8-Aug.  26, 
1890.) 

274 


LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS 

1891,  May   16.  Criticism   and   Fiction.     N.Y.,   Harper. 

[Selections  from  the  "Editor's  Study'' 
of  Harper's  Magazine. '\ 

Oct.  17.  The  Albany  Depot.  N.Y.,  Harper,  1892 
[1891].  {Harper's  Weekly,  Dec.  14, 
1889.) 

Dec.  5.  An    Imperative   Duty:     a   Novel.      N.Y., 

Harper,  1892  [1891],  (Harper's  Mag- 
azine, July-Oct.,  1891.) 

1892,  Apr.  9.  The  Quality  of  Mercy:    a  Novel.     N.Y., 

Harper.     {New  York  {Sunday)  Sun.) 
Aug.  6.  A  Letter  of  Introduction:    Farce.     N.Y,. 

Harper.      {Harper's    Magazine,     Jan.,' 

1892.) 
Oct.  8.  A  Little  Swiss  Sojourn.     N.Y.,  Harper. 

{Harper's  Magazine,  Feb.-Mar.,  1888.) 
Dec.  17.         Christmas  Every  Day,  and  other  Stories 

told  for  Children.     N.Y.,  Harper,  1893 

[1892]. 

1893,  Apr,  I.  The  World  of  Chance:    a  Novel.     N.Y., 

Harper.  {Harper's  Magazine,  Mar.- 
Nov.,  1892.) 

May  20.        The  Unexpected  Guests:  a  Farce.  N.Y., 

Harper.      {Harper's    Magazine,  Jan., 

1893-) 
Oct.  14.         My  Year  in  a  Log  Cabin.     N.Y.,  Harper. 

{Youth's  Companion.) 
Nov.  4.  Evening    Dress:     Farce.     N.Y.,    Harper. 

{Cosmopolitan  Magazine,  May,  1892.) 
Nov.  II.        The  Coast  of  Bohemia:   a  Novel.     N.Y., 

Harper.     {Ladies'  Home  Journal,  Dec, 

1892-Oct.,  1893.) 

1894,  June  2.  A     Traveler    from    Altruria:     Romance. 

N.Y.,  Harper.  {Cosinopolitan,  Nov., 
1892-Oct.,  1893.) 

27s 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

1895,  June  22.        My    Literary    Passions.     N.Y.,    Harper. 

(Ladies'    Home   Journal,    Dec,    1892- 

Oct.,  1893.) 
Nov.  2.  Stops  of  Various  Quills.     N.Y.,  Harper. 

(Eleven  of  the  poems  appeared  in  Har- 
per's Magazine,  Dec,   1894.) 
The   Day  of   their   Wedding:     a  Novel. 

N.Y.,  Harper.    (Harper's  Bazar,  Oct.  5- 

Nov.  16,  1895.) 
A  Parting  and  a  Meeting:    Story.     N.Y., 

Harper.     (Cosmopolitan  Magazine,  Dec, 

1894.) 
Impressions     and     Experiences.      N.Y.» 

Harper. 
A  Previous  Engagement :  Comedy.     N.Y., 

Harper.      (Harper's    Magazine,    Dec, 

1895-) 
The  Landlord  at  Lion's  Head:    a  Novel. 

N.Y.,  Harper.  (Harper's  Weekly,  July  4- 

Dec  5,  1896.) 
An   Open -Eyed  Conspiracy:    an  Idyl  of 

Saratoga.      N.Y.,      Harper.      (Century 

Magazine,  July-Oct.,  1896.) 
Stories  of  Ohio.    N.Y.,  American   Book 

Co. 
The  Story  of  a  Play:    a  Novel.     N.Y., 

Harper.     (Scribner's   Magazine,   Mar.- 

July,  1897.) 
Ragged  Lady:  a  Novel.     N.Y.,  Harper. 
Their  Silver  Wedding  Journey.     2  vols. 

N.Y.,    Harper.      (Harper's    Magazine, 

Jan. -Dec,  1899.) 
Bride  Roses:  a  Scene.    Boston,  Houghton. 
Room     Forty-five:      a     Farce.     Boston, 

Houghton. 
276 


1896, 

Feb. 

22. 

Apr. 

II. 

Oct. 

31- 

1897, 

Feb. 

20. 

Apr. 

17- 

Sept. 

II. 

Dec. 

25- 

1898,  June 

25- 

1899, 

Feb. 
Dec. 

25- 

16. 

1900, 

June 
June 

2. 
2. 

LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS 

Oct.  6.  The    Smoking    Car:     a    Farce.     Boston, 

Houghton. 
Oct.  6.  An   Indian   Giver:    a   Comedy.     Boston, 

Houghton.     {Harper's  Magazine,  Jan., 

1897-) 
Dec.  I.  Literary    Friends   and    Acquaintance:     a 

Personal  Retrospect  of  American  Au- 
thorship.    N.Y.,  Harper. 

1901,  June  I.  A  Pair  of  Patient  Lovers.     N.Y.,  Harper. 

{Harper's  Magazine,  Nov.,  1897.) 
Nov.  2.  Heroines  of  Fiction.     2  vols.     N.Y.,  Har- 

per.    {Harper's  Bazar,  May  5,   1900- 
Oct.,  1901.) 

1902,  Apr.  26.         The  Kentons:    a  Novel.    N.Y.,  Harper. 
Oct.  4.  The  Flight  of  Pony  Baker :  a  Boy's  Town 

Story.     N.Y.,   Harper. 
Oct.  25.         Literature  and  Life:  Studies.  N.Y.,  Harper. 

1903,  June  6.  Questionable  Shapes.     N.Y.,  Harper. 
Oct.  3.  Letters  Home.     N.Y.,  Harper. 

1904,  Oct.  15.         The  Son  of  Royal  Langbrith:    a  Novel. 

N.Y.,  Harper.      {North  American  Re- 
view, Jan. -Aug.,   1904.) 

1905,  June  17.        Miss    Bellard's    Inspiration:     a    Novel. 

N.Y.,  Harper. 
Oct.  21.         London  Films.     N.Y.,  Harper.   {Harper's 
Magazine,  Dec,  1904-Mar.,   1905.) 

1906,  Nov.  3.  Certain   delightful   English   Towns,   with 

Glimpses  of  the  pleasant  country  be- 
tween.    N.Y.,  Harper. 

1907,  Apr.  27.         Through  the  Eye  of  the  Needle:    a  Ro- 

mance.    N.Y.,  Harper. 
June  I.  Mulberries  in  Pay's  Garden.     Cincinnati, 

Clarke. 
Nov.  9.  Between    the    Dark    and    the    Daylight: 

Romances.     N.Y.,  Harper. 

277 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

1908,  Mar.  21.        Fennel  and  Rue :  a  Novel.     N.Y.,  Harper. 
Dec.  12.         Roman     Holidays,     and     others.     N.Y., 

Harper. 

1909,  June  12.        The    Mother    and     the     Father:     Dra- 

matic Passages.     N.Y.,  Harper.     (The 
Mother,  in  Harper^s  Magazine,  Dec, 
1902.) 
Nov.  6.  Seven  English  Cities.     N.Y.,  Harper. 

RUDYARD   KIPLING 

30  December  1865- 

1881.  Schoolboy  Lyrics.     Lahore.     (Printed  for 

Private  Circulation  only.) 

1884.  Echoes.     By  Two  Writers.    Lahore. 

1885.  Quartette.     The  Christmas  Annual  of  the 

Civil   and   Military   Gazette.     By   four 
Anglo-Indian  Writers.     Lahore. 

1886.  Departmental  Ditties.     Lahore. 

1888.  Plain   Tales   from   the   HUls.     Calcutta, 

Thacker. 
Soldiers  Three:    a  Collection  of  Stories. 

Allaliabad,  Wheeler. 
The  Story  of  the  Gadsbys:  a  Tale  without 

a  Plot.     Allahabad,  Wheeler. 
In  Black  and  White.     Allahabad,  Wheeler. 
Under  the  Deodars.     Allahabad,  Wheeler. 
The  Phantom  'Rickshaw,  and  other  Tales. 

Allahabad,  Wheeler. 
Wee  Willie  Winkie,  and  other  Child  Stories. 

Allahabad,  Wheeler. 
1890,  Sept.  6.  The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd,  and  other 

Stories.     N.Y.,   Harper. 
The  City  of   Dreadful  Night,  and  other 

Sketches.     Allahabad,  Wheeler. 
278 


LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS 

1891,  The   Smith  Administration.     Allahabad, 

Wheeler. 
Letters  of  Marque.  Allahabad,  Wheeler. 
Feb.  28.         The   Light   that   Failed.     London,  Mac- 

millan.     (LippincoU's   Magazine,    Jan., 

1891.) 
Aug.  15.         Life's  Handicap:  being  stories  of  mine  own 

people.     London,  Macmillan. 

1892,  May  21.         Barrack-Room  Ballads,  and  other  Verses. 

London,  Methuen. 
July  9.  The  Naulahka :  a  Story  of  West  and  East. 

By  Rudyard  Kipling  and  Wolcott  Bales- 
tier.  London,  Heinemann.  {Century 
Magazine,  Nov.,  1891-July,  1892.) 

1893,  June  17.        Many  Inventions.     London,  Macmillan. 

1894,  June  2.  The  Jungle  Book.     London,  Macmillan. 

1895,  Good   Hunting.     Pp.    16.     London,  Pall 

Mall  Gazette  office. 

Oct.  26.  Out  of  India:  Things  I  saw,  and  failed  to 
see,  on  certain  Days  and  Nights  at  Jey- 
pore  and  elsewhere.     N.Y.,  Dillingham. 

Nov.  16.  The  Second  Jungle  Book.  London,  Mac- 
millan. 

1896,  Nov.  7.  Soldier  Tales.     London,  Macmillan. 
Nov.  14.        The  Seven  Seas.     London,  Methuen. 

1897,  Oct.  23.         Captains    Courageous:     a    Story   of   the 

Grand  Banks.     London,  Macmillan. 
Dec.  4.  An  Almanac  of  Twelve  Sports  for  1898. 

By  William   Nicholson.     With  accom- 
panying Rhymes  by  Rudyard  Kipling. 
London,  Heinemann. 
White  Horses.     Pp.  10.     London,  printed 
for  Private  Circulation. 

1898,  May.  The  Destroyers:    a  new   Poem.     Pp.   6. 

London,  Ward. 

279 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 


Sept.  lo. 

Oct.  15. 
Dec.  17. 


1899,  July  I. 


Oct.  6. 

1901,  Oct.  19 

1902,  Oct.  II 

1903,  Oct.  10 

1904,  Oct.  15 

1909,  Oct.  16 
Oct.  16 


1898,  Oct.  8. 
1902,  Nov.  15. 

1907,  Oct.  5. 

1908,  Oct.  17. 


Collectanea :  being  certain  reprinted  Verses. 
Pp.  32.     N.Y.,  Mansfield. 

The  Day's  Work.     London,  Macmillan. 

A  Fleet  in  Being :  Notes  of  two  Trips  with 
the  Channel  Squadron.  London,  Mac- 
millan. 

From  Sea  to  Sea:  Letters  of  Travel.  2 
vols.  N.Y.,  Doubleday.  (London,  Mac- 
miUan,  Feb.  24,  1900.) 

Stalky  and  Co.     London,  Macmillan. 

Kim.     London,  Macmillan. 

Just  So  Stories  for  Little  Children.  Lon- 
don, Macmillan. 

The  Five  Nations.     London,  Methuen. 

Traffics  and  Discoveries.  London,  Mac- 
millan. 

Actions  and  Reactions.     N.Y.,  Doubleday. 

Abaft  the  Funnel.     N.Y.,  Dodge. 

Cuckoo  Song.  Pp.  3.  N.Y.,  Double- 
day. 

ALFRED   OLLIVANT 

1874- 
Owd   Bob,  the  Grey  Dog  of  Kenmuir. 

London,  Methuen.     (N.Y.,  Doubleday, 

Oct.  29,  under  title  "Bob,  Son  of  Battle. ") 
Danny.      N.Y.,     Doubleday.      (London, 

Murray,    Feb.    28,     1903,    under    title 

"Danny:  Story  of  a  Dandie  Dinmont.") 
Redcoat    Captain:      A    Story    of    That 

Country.    N.Y.,  Macmillan.     (London, 

Murray,  Oct.  19.) 
The  Gentleman:   A  Romance  of  the  Sea. 

N.Y.,   Macmillan.     (London,   Murray, 

Oct.  24.) 

280 


LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS 

HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 

4  May  1846- 

[Including  only  works  that  have  been  translated  into  English.] 
1884,  Nov.  Ogniem  i  Mieczem.     4  vols.     Warsaw. 

—  With  Fire  and  Sword.     Tr.  by  Jeremiah 

Curtin.      Boston,  Little,  Brown   &  Co., 
May  17,  1890. 

—  With  Fire  and  Sword.     Tr.  by  Samuel  A. 

Binion.     Phila.,  Altemus. 
1886.  Potop.     6  vols.     Warsaw. 

—  The  Deluge.     Tr.  by  J.  Curtin.     2  vols. 

Boston,  Little,  Dec.  19,  1891. 
1887-1888.  Pan  Wo/odyjowski.     3  vols.     Warsaw. 

—  Pan  Michael.     Tr.  by  J.  Curtin.     Boston, 

Little,  Dec.  2,  1893. 

—  Pan    Michael.     Tr.     by    S.     A.     Binion. 

Phila.,   Altemus    [1898]. 
1891,  Feb.  Bez  Dogmatu.     3  vols.     Warsaw. 

—  Without    Dogma.     Tr.    by    Iza    Young. 

Boston,  Little,  Apr.  15,  1893. 

1895,  Apr.  Rodzina  Po/anieckich.     3  vols.    Warsaw. 

—  Children  of  the  Soil.     Tr.  by  J.  Curtin. 

Boston,  Little,  June  i,  1895. 

—  The  Irony  of  Life :  the  Polanetzki  Family. 

Tr.    by    Nathan    M.     Babad.     N.Y., 
Fenno,  Apr.  28,  1900. 

1896,  Dec.  Quo  Vadis.     3  vols.     Warsaw. 

—  Quo  Vadis.     Tr.  by  J.  Curtin.     Boston, 

Little,  Oct.  17,  1896. 

—  Quo  Vadis.     Tr.  by  S.  A.  Binion  and  S. 

Malevsky.      Phila.,   Altemus,   Dec.    18, 
1897. 

—  Quo  Vadis.    Tr.  by  Wm.  E.  Smith.    N.Y., 

Ogilvie,  1898. 

281 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

1900,  Nov.  Krzyzacy.    4  vols.    Warsaw. 

—  Knights  of  the  Cross  [Part  i  only].     Tr. 

by  S.  C.  de  Soissons.    N.Y.,  Fenno,  1897, 

—  Knights  of  the  Cross.     Tr.  by  J.  Curtin 

2  vols.     Boston,  Little,  1900.     (Vol.   i 
Jan.  13;   Vol.  2,  June  9.) 

—  Knights  of  the  Cross.    Tr.  by  S.  A.  Binion 

3  vols.     N.Y.,    Fenno,     1900.     (Vols 
1-2,  Jan.  20;    Vol.  3,  Dec.  15.) 

—  Knights  of    the  Cross.    A  special  trans 

lation.     2    vols.      N.Y.,    Street,    1900 
(Vol.  I,  Apr.  21;  Vol.  2,  Oct.  6.) 

—  Knights  of  the  Cross.     Tr.  by  B.  Dahl. 

N.Y.,  Ogilvie,  Dec.  22, 1900.   [Abridged.] 
Warsaw. 
1906,  July.         Na  Polu  Chwajy.     Warsaw. 

—  On  the  Field  of  Glory.    Tr.  by  J.  Curtin. 

Boston,  Little,  Feb.  3,  1906. 

—  The  Field  of  Glory.     Tr.  by  Henry  Britoff. 

N.Y.,  Ogilvie,  Apr.  14,  1906. 

—  Field  of  Glory.     London,  Lane,  July  21, 

1906. 

In  addition  to  the  novels  listed  above,  his  tales  and  stories 
(Pisma)  have  been  collected  and  published  in  41  vols.  (War- 
saw, 1880-1902.)  The  following  English  translations  have 
been  published :  — 

Yanko  the  Musician,  and  other  Stories.  Tr.  by  J.  Curtin. 
Boston,  Little,  Oct.  21,  1893.  (Contents:  Yanko  the 
Musician.  The  Light-house  Keeper  of  Aspinwall. 
From  the  Diary  of  a  Tutor  in  Poznan.  Comedy  of  Errors : 
a  Sketch  of  American  Life.     Bartek  the  Victor.) 

Lillian  Morris,  and  other  Stories.  Tr.  by  J.  Curtin.  Boston, 
Little,  Oct.  27, 1894.  (Contents:  Lillian  Morris.  Sachem. 
Yamyol.     The  Bull-Fight.) 


LIST    OF   PUBLICATIONS 

Let  us  follow  Ilim,  and  other  Stories.  Tr.  by  Vatslaf  A. 
Hlasko  and  Thos.  H.  Bullick.  N.Y.,  Fenno  [copyrighted, 
1897].  {Contents:  Let  us  follow  Him.  Sielanka.  Be 
Blessed.  Light  in  Darkness.  Orso.  Memories  of  Mari- 
posa.) 

Hania.  Tr.  by  J.  Curtin.  Boston,  Little,  Dec.  11,  1897. 
(Contents:  Prologue  to  Hania:  The  Old  Servant. 
Hania.  Tartar  Captivity.  Let  us  follow  Him.  Be  thou 
Blessed.  At  the  Source.  Charcoal  Sketches.  The  Or- 
ganist of  Ponikla.  Lux  in  Tenebris  Lucet.  On  the 
Bright  Shore.     That  Third  Woman.) 

So  runs  the  World.  Tr.  by  S.  C.  de  Soissons.  London  and 
N.Y.,  Neely,  Mar.  19,  1898.  (Contents:  Henryk  Sien- 
kiewicz.  Zola.  Whose  Fault?  The  Verdict.  Win  or  Lose.) 

Sielanka,  and  other  stories.  From  the  Polish  by  J.  Curtin. 
Boston,  Little,  Oct.  29,  1898.  (Contents:  Sielanka: 
a  Forest  Picture.  For  Bread.  Orso.  Whose  Fault? 
The  Decision  of  Zeus.  On  a  Single  Card.  Yanko  the 
Musician.  Bartek  the  Victor.  Across  the  Plains. 
From  the  Diary  of  a  Tutor  in  Poznan.  The  Light-house 
Keeper  of  Aspinwall.  Yamyol.  The  Bull-Fight.  Sa- 
chem. A  Comedy  of  Errors.  A  Journey  to  Athens. 
Ziola.) 

Let  us  Follow  Him,  and  other  Stories.  Tr.  by  S.  C.  Slupski 
and  I.  Young.  Phila.,  Altemus  [copyrighted,  Oct.  24, 
1898].  (Contents:  Let  us  follow  Him.  Be  Blessed. 
Bartek  the  Conqueror.) 

For  Daily  Bread,  and  other  Stories.  Tr.  by  Iza  Young. 
Phila.,  Altemus  [1898].  (Contents:  For  Daily  Bread. 
An  Artist's  End.    A  Comedy  of  Errors.) 

Tales  from  Sienkiewicz.  Tr.  by  S.  C.  de  Soissons.  London, 
Allen,  Dec.  23,  1899.  (Contents:  A  Country  Artist. 
In  Bohemia.  A  Circus  Hercules.  The  Decision  of 
Zeus.  Anthea.  Be  Blessed!  Whose  Fault?  True  to 
his  Art.    The  Duel.) 

283 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

Life  and  Death,  and  other  Legends  and  Stories.  Tr.  by  J. 
Curtin.  Boston,  Little,  Apr.  i6,  1904.  {Contents: 
Life  and  Death:  a  Hindu  Legend.  Is  He  the  Dearest 
One?  A  Legend  of  the  Sea.  The  Cranes.  The  Judg- 
ment of  Peter  and  Paul  on  Olympus.) 

The  following  stories  have  been  published  separately  in 
English:  — 

Let  us  follow  Him.    Tr.  by  J.  Curtin.     Boston,  Little,  Dec. 

II,  1897. 
After  Bread.    Tr.  by  Vatslaf  A.  Hlasko  and  Thos.  H.  Bullick. 

N.Y.,  Fenno,  June  18,   1898. 

—  Peasants  in  Exile  (For  Daily  Bread).     From  the  Polish  by 

C.    O'Conor-Eccles.     Notre    Dame,    Ind.,    The    Ave 

Maria  [1898]. 
In   the  New  Promised  Land.     Tr.   by  S.   C.   de   Soissons. 

London,  Jarrold,  1900. 
On  the  Sunny  Shore.    Tr.  by  S.  C.  de  Soissons.     N.Y.,  Fenno. 

[1897]. 

—  On  the  Bright  Shore.     From   the  Polish   by  J.   Curtin. 

Boston,  Little,  June  18,  1898. 

—  On  the  Bright  Shore.     To  which  is  added,  That  Third 

Woman.    From  the  Polish  by  J.  Curtin.     Boston,  Little, 

1898. 
In  Vain.     Tr.  by  J.  Curtin.     Boston,  Little,  June  17,  1899. 
The   Third   Woman.     Tr.    by   Nathan   M.    Babad.     N.Y., 

Ogilvie,  Apr.  23,  1898. 
The  Fate  of  a  Soldier.     Tr.  by  J.  C.  Bay.     N.Y.,  Ogilvie 

[copyrighted,  Sept.  3,   1898]. 

—  The  New  Soldier.     N.Y.,  Hurst. 

Hania.     Tr.   by  Vatslaf  A.   Hlasco  and  Thos.   H.   Bullick. 

N.Y.,  Fenno. 
In  Monte  Carlo.    Tr.  by  S.  C.  dc  Soissons.    London,  Greening, 

Sept.  16,  1899. 

284 


LIST    OF   PUBLICATIONS 

The  Judgment  of  Peter  and  Paul  on  Olympus.  To  which  is 
added:  Be  thou  Blessed.  Tr.  by  J.  Curtin.  Boston, 
Little,  Nov.  3,  1900. 

Dust  and  Ashes.     N.Y.,  Hurst. 

Her  Tragic  Fate.     N.Y.,  Hurst. 

Where  Worlds  Meet.     N.Y.,  Hurst. 

ROBERT  LOUIS   STEVENSON 
13  November  1850-3  December  1894 

1866.  The  Pentland  Rising:   a  Page  of  History, 

1666.     Pp.  22.     Edinburgh,  Elliot. 

1868.  The  Charity  Bazaar:    an  allegorical  Dia- 

logue. Pp.  4.  4°.  Edinburgh.  (Pri- 
vately Printed.) 

1871.  Notice  of  a  New  Form  of  Intermittent  Light 

for  Lighthouses.  (From  the  Transac- 
tions of  the  Royal  Scottish  Society  of  Arts, 
Vol.  8, 1870-1871.)     Edinburgh,  Neill. 

1873.  The  Thermal  Influence  of  Forests.     (From 

the  Proceedings  of  the  Royal  Society  of 
Edinburgh.)     Edinburgh,  Neill. 

1875.  An  Appeal  to  the  Clergy  of  the  Church  of 

Scotland.     Edinburgh,  Blackwood. 

1878,  May  16.  An  Inland  Voyage.  London,  Kegan  Paul. 
Dec.  18.  Edinburgh.  Picturesque  Notes.  London, 
Seeley,   1879   [1878].     {Portfolio.) 

i8yg,  June  17.  Travels  with  a  Donkey  in  the  Cevennes. 
London,  Kegan  Paul. 

i88o.  Deacon  Brodie;   or,  The  Double  Life:    a 

Melodrama  founded  on  Facts.  By  W. 
E.  Henley  and  R.  L.  Stevenson.  (Pri- 
vately Printed.) 

1881,  Apr.  16.  Virginibus  Pucrisque,  and  other  Papers. 
London,  Kegan  Paul. 

285 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

Not  T,  and  other  Poems.     Pp.  8.     Davos, 
Osbourne. 

1882,  Moral  Emblems:    a  second  collection  of 

Cuts  and  Verses.     Davos,  Osbourne. 
The  Story  of  a  Lie.     Pp.  80.     Haley  and 

Jackson.     (Suppressed.) 
Mar.  15.        Familiar    Studies    of    Men    and    Books. 

London,  Chatto. 
Aug.  I.  New  Arabian  Nights.     2  vols.     London, 

Chatto. 

1883,  Dec.  6.  Treasure  Island.     London,  Cassell. 

The  Silverado  Squatters.     London,  Chatto. 
{Century  Magazine,  Nov  .-Dec,  1883.) 

1884,  Admiral  Guinea.     By  W.  E.  Henley  and 

R.   L.    Stevenson.     Edinburgh,   Clark. 
(Printed  for  Private  Circulation.) 
Beau    Austin.      By   W.   E.    Henley   and 
R.  L.  Stevenson.     (Printed  for  Private 
Circulation.) 

1885,  Apr.  I.  A   Child's   Garden    of   Verses.     London, 

Longmans. 

May  15.  More  New  Arabian  Nights.  The  Dyna- 
miter. By  R.  L.  Stevenson  and  Fanny 
Van  de  Grift  Stevenson.  London, 
Longmans. 

Nov.  16.  Prince  Otto:  a  Romance.  London,  Chatto. 
{Longman' s  Magazine,  Apr.-Oct.,  1885.) 
Macaire.  By  W.  E.  Henley  and  R. 
L.  Stevenson.  (Printed  for  Private  Cir- 
culation.) 

1886,  Jan.  15.         The  Strange  Case  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr. 

Hyde.     London,  Longmans. 
Aug.  2.  Kidnapped:   being   Memoirs  of  the   Ad- 

ventures of  David  Balfour  in  the  year 
1 75 1.     London,  Cassell. 

286 


LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS 

Some    College    Memories.      Edinburgh. 
(30  copies  Privately  Printed.) 

1887,  Feb.   15.        The  Merry  Men,  and    other   Tales  and 

Fables.     London,   Chatto. 
Sept.  I.  Underwoods.     London,  Chatto. 

Dec.  6.  Memories  and  Portraits.     London,  Chatto. 

Ticonderoga.      Edinburgh,     Clark.      (50 

copies  printed  for  the  author.) 
Thomas  Stevenson,  Civil  Engineer.     (For 
Private  Distribution.) 

1888,  Jan.  16.         Memoir  of  Fleeming  Jenkin.     (Prefixed 

to  Papers  of  Fleeming   Jenkin.)     Lon- 
don, Longmans. 
Aug.  15.         The  Black  Arrow:  a  Tale  of  the  Two  Roses. 
London,  Cassell.     {Young  Folks.) 

1889,  July  I.  The  Wrong  Box.     By  R.  L.  Stevenson  and 

Lloyd  Osbourne.     London,  Longmans. 
Sept.  16.        The   Master  of  Ballantrae:    a  Winter's 
Tale.      London,     Cassell.      (Scribner^s 
Magazine,  Nov.,  1888-Oct.,  1889.) 

1890,  Mar.  Father  Damien:    an  open  Letter  to  the 

Reverend  Dr.  Hyde  of  Honolulu.     Pp. 
32.    Sydney.    (Privately  Printed  Edition 
of  25  copies.) 
The  South  Seas.     (Privately  Printed.) 
Ballads.     London,  Chatto.     (Large  paper; 
190  copies.) 
1892,  April  16.        Across  the  Plains;    with  other  Memories 
and  Essays.     London,   Chatto. 
July  9.  The  Wrecker.     By  R,  L.  Stevenson  and 

Lloyd    Osbourne.      London,     Cassell. 
(Scribner's  Magazine,  Aug.,  1891-July, 
1892.) 
Aug.  20.        The  Beach  of   Falesa,  and  The  Bottle 
Imp.     London,  Cassell. 
287 


ESSAYS    ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

Aug.  27.        A  Footnote  to   History:    Eight   Years  of 
Trouble  in  Samoa.     London,  Cassell. 

Dec.  17.  Three  Plays.  Deacon  Brodie.  Beau 
Austin.  Admiral  Guinea.  By  W.  E. 
Henley  and  R.  L.  Stevenson.  London, 
Nutt. 
An  Object  of  Pity,  or  the  Man  Haggard. 
Imprinted  at  Amsterdam.  [1892.] 
(For    Private    Distribution.) 

1893,  Apr.  15.         Island  Nights'  Entertainments.     London, 

Cassell. 
Sept.  9.  Catriona:     a    Sequel    to    "Kidnapped." 

London,  Cassell. 
Sept.  War    in     Samoa.     Reprinted    from     the 

Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

1894,  Sept.  22.        The  Ebb-Tide:    a  Trio  and  a  Quartette. 

By     R.     L.     Stevenson     and     Lloyd 
Osbourne.    London,  Heinemann.    {Mc- 
Clure's  Magazine,  Feb.-July,  1894.) 
Nov.  10.        The  Suicide  Club  and  The  Rajah's  Dia- 
mond.    London,  Chatto. 

1895,  Mar.  2.  The  Amateur  Emigrant  from  the  Clyde 

to    Sandy    Hook.     Chicago,    Stone    & 
Kimball. 
Nov.  9.  Vailima  Letters.     Being  Correspondence 

addressed  by  R.  L.  Stevenson  to  Sidney 
Colvin,  Nov.,  1890-Oct.,  1894.  Lon- 
don, Mcthuen. 

1896,  May  23.         Weir  of  Hermislon:    an   unfinished   Ro- 

mance.    London,  Chatto. 
Sept.  5.  Songs  of  Travel,  and  other  Verses.     Lon- 

don, Chatto. 
Familiar    Epistles    in    Verse    and    Prose. 
Pp.  18.     (Printed  for  Private  Distribu- 
tion.) 

288 


LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS 

A  Mountain  Town  in  France :  a  Fragment. 
Pp.  20.  London,  Lane. 

1897,  Oct.  9.  St.  Ives:  being  the  Adventures  of  a  French 

Prisoner  in  England.  London,  Heine- 
mann,  1898  [1897]. 

1898,  Feb.  26,         Macaire:   a  melodramatic  Farce.     By  W. 

E.  Henley  and  R.  L.  Stevenson.    Lon- 
don, Heinemann. 
Apr.  16.        A     Lowden    Sabbath   Morn.      London, 
Chatto. 
JEs  Triplex.     Printed   for  the   .\merican 
Subscribers  to  the  Stevenson  Memorial. 

1899,  Nov.  18.        Letters  to  his  Family  and  Friends,  selected 

and  edited  by  Sidney  Colvin.  2  vols. 
London,  Methucn. 

1900,  Dec.  22.         In  the  South  Seas :  Account  of  Experiences 

and  Observations  in  the  Marquesas, 
Paumotus,  and  Gilbert  Islands  during 
tw^o  cruises  on  the  Yacht  "  Casco,"  1888, 
and  the  Schooner  "Equator,"  1889. 
London,  Chatto. 

HERMANN   SUDERMANN 
30  September  1857- 

1886,  Im    Zwielicht:    Zwanglose   Geschichten. 

Berlin. 

1887,  Feb.  10.         Frau  Sorge:  Roman.     Berlin. 

—  Dame  Care.  Tr.  by  Bertha  Overbeck. 
London,  Osgood,  1891;  N.Y.,  Harper, 
1891. 

1888,  Jan.  19.  Geschwister:   Zwei  Novellen.     Berlin. 

—  The  Wish :  a  Novel.  Tr.  by  Lily 
Henkel.    London,  Unwin,  Nov.  3,  1894. 

1890,  Jan.  9.  Der  Katzensteg :    Roman.     Berlin. 

u  2S9 


ESSAYS   ON   MODERN   NOVELISTS 

—  Regine.  From  the  German  by  H.  E. 
Miller.     Chicago,  Weeks,  1894. 

—  Regina;  or,  The  Sins  of  the  Fathers. 
Tr.  by  Beatrice  Marshall.  London 
and  N.Y.,  Lane,  1898. 

Die  Ehre:   Schauspiel.     Berlin. 

1891,  Mar.  26.         Sodoms  Ende:    Drama.     Berlin. 

1892,  June  2.  lolanthes  Hochzeit :  Erzahlung.  Stuttgart. 

1893,  Mar.  23.        Heimat:    Schauspiel.     Stuttgart. 

—  Magda.  Tr.  by  C.  E.  A.  Winslow. 
Boston,  Lamson,  1896. 

1894,  Dec.  6.  Es  war:   Roman.     Stuttgart. 

—  The  Undying  Past.  Tr.  by  Beatrice 
Marshall.     London,  N.Y.,  Lane,  1906. 

1895,  June  27.         Die      Schmetterlingschlacht :      Komodie. 

Stuttgart. 

1896,  Apr.  30.         Das  Gluck  im  Winkel :  Schauspiel.     Stutt- 

gart. 
Dec.  3.  Morituri:  Teja,  Fritzchen,  Das  Ewigmann- 

liche.     Stuttgart. 

—  Teias.  Tr.  by  Mary  Harned.  {Poet- 
Lore,  July-Sept.,  1897.) 

1898,  Jan.  27.         Johannes:    Tragodie.     Stuttgart. 

—  Johannes.  Tr.  by  W.  H.  Harned  and 
Mary  Harned.  {Poet-Lore,  Apr.-June, 
1899.) 

—  John  the  Baptist.  Tr.  by  Beatrice  Mar- 
shall.    London,  N.Y.,  Lane,  1909  [1908]. 

1899,  F^b.  9.  Die  drei  Rciherfedcrn :    ein  dramatisches 

Gedicht.     Stuttgart. 

—  Three  Heron's  Feathers.  Tr.  by  H.  T. 
Porter.     {Poet-Lore,   Apr.-June,    1900.) 

1900,  May  23.         Drei  Reden.     Pp.  47.     Stuttgart. 

Oct.  25.         Johannisfeuer:    Schauspiel.      Stuttgart. 

—  Fires  of   St.    John.     Tr.    by  Charlotte 

290 


LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS 

Porter  and   H.  C.  Porter.     {Poet-Lore, 
Jan. -Mar.,  1904.) 

—  Fires  of  St.  John.  Tr.  and  adapted  by 
Charles  Swickard.  Boston,  Luce,  Nov. 
19,  1904. 

—  St.  John's  Fire.  Tr.  by  Grace  E.  Polk. 
Minneapolis,  Wilson,  June  17,  1905. 

1902,  Feb.  27.         Es  lebe  das  Leben:    Drama.     Stuttgart. 

—  The  Joy  of  Living.  Tr.  by  Edith 
Wharton.    N.Y.,  Scribner,  Nov.  8,  1902. 

Dec.  25.         Verrohung    in    der   Theaterkritik:     Zeit- 
gemasse  Betrachtungen.     Stuttgart. 

1903,  Oct.  22.         Der    Sturmgeselle    Sokrates:     Komodie. 

Stuttgart. 
Nov.  12.        Die  Sturmgesellen:  Ein  Wort  zur  Abwehr. 
Pp.  27.     Berlin. 
1905,  Oct.  19.         Stein  unter  Steinen :  Schauspiel.  Stuttgart, 
Nov.  16.        Das  Blumenboot:    Schauspiel.     Stuttgart. 

1907,  Oct.  24.         Rosen:    Vier  Einakter.     Stuttgart. 

—  Roses.  Tr.  by  Grace  Frank.  N.Y., 
Scribner,  Oct.  9,  1909. 

1908,  Dec.  3.  Das  hohe  Lied:    Roman.     Stuttgart. 

—  The  Song  of  Songs.  Tr.  by  Thomas 
Seltzer.     N.Y.,    Huebsch,  Dec,   1909. 

MRS.  HUMPHRY  WARD 

(Mary  Augusta  Arnold) 
II  June  1851- 

1881,  Dec.  17.         Milly  and  Oily;  or,  A  Holiday  among  the 
Mountains.     London,  Macmillan. 

1884,  Dec.  15.         Miss  Bretherton.     London,  Macmillan. 

1885,  Dec.  31.         Amicl's  Journal  Intime,  translated  by  Mrs. 

Humphry  Ward.       2    vols.      London, 
Macmillan. 

291 


i 


ESSAYS   ON  MODERN  NOVELISTS 

1888,  Mar.  I.  Robert  Elsmere.     3  vols.     London,  Smith, 

Elder. 

1891,  Mar.  14.        University  Hall :  Opening  Address.  Pp.  45. 

London,  Smith,  Elder. 

1892,  Jan.  2^.         The   History  of  David   Grieve.     3   vols. 

London,  Smith,  Elder 

1894,  Apr.  7.  Marcella.     3  vols.     London,  Smith,  Elder. 
Aug.  4.          Unitarians  and  the  Future:  the  Essex  Hall 

Lecture,  1894.    Pp.  72.    London,  Green, 

1895,  July  6.  The  Story  of   Bessie  Costrell.      London, 

Smith,  Elder.  (Cornhill  Magazine, 
May-July,  1895;  Scribner's  Magazine, 
May-July,  1895.) 

Sir  George  Tressady.  London,  Smith, 
Elder.  {Century  Magazine,  Nov.,  1895- 
Oct.  1896.) 

Helbeck  of  Bannisdale.  London,  Smith. 
Elder. 

Eleanor.  London,  Smith,  Elder.  (Har- 
per's Magazine,  Jan. -Dec,  1900.) 

Lady  Rose's  Daughter.  London,  Smith, 
Elder.  (Harper's  Magazine,  May,  1902- 
Apr.,  1903.) 

The  Marriage  of  William  Ashe.  London, 
Smith,  Elder.  (Harper's  Magazine, 
June,  1904-May,  1905.) 

Play-Time  of  the  Poor.  Reprinted  from 
the   Times.     London,  Smith,  Elder. 

Fenwick's  Career.    London,  Smith,  Elder. 

William  Thomas  Arnold,  Journalist  and 
Historian,  by  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  and 
C.  E.  Montague.  Manchester,  Sher- 
ratt.  (Originally  published  on  Feb.  23 
as  preface  to  W.  T.  Arnold's  Fragmen- 
tary Studies  on  Roman  Lnperialism.) 
292 


1896, 

Oct. 

3- 

f 

1898,  June 

II. 

1900, 

Nov. 

10. 

1903, 

Mar. 

21. 

190S, 

Mar, 

18. 

1906, 

Mar. 

3- 

May 

12. 

1907, 

Apr. 

27. 

LIST   OF  PUBLICATIONS 

1908,  Sept.  19.        Diana  Mallory.     London,   Smith,   Elder. 

(The  Testing  of  Diana  Mallory,  Har- 
per s  Magazine,  Nov.,  1907-Oct.,  1908.) 

1909,  May  29.         Daphne;  or.  Marriage  k  la  Mode.     Lon- 

don, Cassell.  (N.Y.,  Doubleday,  June 
5,  under  title  "Marriage  k  la  Mode." 
(McClure's  Magazine,  Jan.-June,  1909.) 


293 


WILLIAM  ALLEN  WHITE'S 

A  Certain  Rich  Man  cuth,  lomo,  $i.jo 

Dr.  Washington  Gladden  considered  this  book  of  sufficient  importance  to 
take  it  anl  the  text  from  which  the  title  was  drawn  as  his  subject  for  an 
entire  sermun,  in  the  course  of  which  he  said:  "  In  its  ethical  and  social 
signilicance  it  is  the  most  important  piece  of  fiction  that  has  lately  ap- 
peared in  America.  1  do  not  think  that  a  more  trenchant  word  has  been 
spoken  to  this  nation  since  '  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.'  And  it  is  profoundly 
to  be  hoped  that  this  book  may  do  for  the  prevailing  Mammonism  what 
'  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin '  did  for  slavery." 

"  Mr.  White  has  written  a  big  and  satisfying  book  made  up  of  the  ele- 
ments of  American  life  as  we  know  them  —  the  familiar  humor,  sorrows, 
ambitions,  crimes,  sacrifices  —  revealed  to  us  with  peculiar  freshness  and 
vigor  in  the  multitude  of  human  actions  and  by  the  crowd  of  delightful 
people  who  till  his  four  hundred  odd  pages.  ...  It  deserves  a  high 
place  among  the  novels  that  deal  with  American  life.  No  recent  Ameri- 
can novel  save  one  has  sought  to  cover  so  broad  a  canvas,  or  has  created 
so  strong  an  impression  of  ambition  and  of  sincerity." — Chicago  Evening 
Post. 

E.  B.  DEWING'S 

Other  People's  Houses  cioth,  i2mo,  $t.jo 

"'Other  People's  Houses'  possesses  that  distinction  of  style  in  which 
most  of  our  current  American  hction  is  so  lamentably  deficient,  and  it 
has  in  addition  the  advantage  of  a  theme  which  is  a  grateful  relief  from 
the  usual  saccharine  love  story  admittedly  designed  to  suit  the  caramel 
age.  .  .  .  Miss  Dewing  has  a  fine  feeling  for  comedy  and  gives  evidence 
of  both  genuine  talent  and  a  fresh  and  vivid  outlook  upon  life."  —  New 
York  Times. 

"It  is  a  story  rich  in  atmosphere,  in  allusion,  and  in  vistas.  .  .  .  The 
story  is  full  of  action.  The  characters  have  virility  and  in  certain  instances 
charm,  and  the  course  of  the  story  awakens  no  little  concern  on  the  part 
of  the  reader.  An  interesting,  varied,  and  amusing  group  of  persons  is 
presented,  and,  .  .  ,  take  it  for  all  in  all,  it  is  a  work  of  taste,  discrimi- 
nation, and  power.  ...  Its  publishers  may  congratulate  themselves  on 
having  come  upon  another  oasis  in  the  present  desert  of  American  fic- 
tion."—  Chicago  Tribune. 

"  If  an  unknown  author  is  to  keep  an  entire  novel  to  this  level,  that 
author  will  be  unknown  no  longer,  Imt  at  a  single  bound  has  reached  the 
height,  not  only  of  good  American  novelists,  but  of  any  novelist  doing 
fiction  in  these  days."  —  Chicago  Post. 


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he  always  had  a  story  to  tell  and  he  knew  how  to  tell  it.  He  was  a 
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amused."  —  A^ew    York   Tribune. 

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Together 


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A  Life  for  a  Life 

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of  any  other  American  novelist  of  his  generation  .  .  .  Mr.  Herrick's 
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strengthening  and  deepening  year  by  year  as  has  the  work  of  Miss  Kllen 
('■lasgow.  From  the  iirst  she  has  had  the  power  to  tell  a  strong  story, 
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sweep  of  society,  the  contrasting  types  of  his  characters  giving  unfailing 
variety  and  interest  to  the  story  of  Eden's  love  and  fight. 

ZONA    GALE'S 

Friendship  Village 

Cloth,  i2mo,  $/.jo 

"  As  charming  as  an  April  day,  all  showers  and  sunshine,  and  sometimes 
both  together,  so  that  the  delighted  reader  hardly  knows  whctlier 
laughter  or  tears  are  fittest  for  his  emotion.  .  .  .  The  book  will  stir  the 
feelings  deeply."  —  A'eiv  York  'Times. 

To  be  followed  by  "  Friendship  Village  Love  Stories." 


Z' 


CHARLES    MAJOR'S 

A  Gentle  Knight  of  Old  Brandenburg 

Illustrated,  cloth ^  12 mo,  $1.^0 

Mr.  Major  has  selected  a  period  to  the  romance  of  which  other  historical 
novelists  have  been  singularly  blind.  The  boyhood  of  Frederick  the 
Great  and  the  strange  vt'ooing  of  his  charming  sister  Wilhelmina  have 
afforded  a  theme,  rich  in  its  revelation  of  human  nature  and  full  of 
romantic  situations. 

MABEL   OSGOOD   WRIGHT'S 
Poppea  of  the  Post  Office 

Cloth,  istno,  $i.jo 

"A  rainbovif  romance,  .  .  .  tender  yet  bracing,  cheerily  stimulating  .  .  , 
its  genial  entirety  refreshes  like  a  cooling  shower." — Chicago  Record 
Herald, 

"There  cannot  be  too  many  of  these  books  by  '  Barbara.'  Mrs.  Wright 
knovi's  good  American  stock  through  and  through  and  presents  it  with 
effective  simplicity."  —  Boston  Advertiser, 

FRANK   DANBY'S 
Sebastian 


Cloth,  i2mo,  $i.jo 


Whenever  a  father's  ideals  conflict  with  a  mother's  hopes  for  the  son  of 
their  dreams,  you  meet  the  currents  underlying  the  plot  of  "  Sebastian." 
Its  author's  skill  in  making  vividly  real  the  types  and  conditions  of  London 
has  never  been  shown  to  better  advantage. 


EDEN   PHILLPOTTS' 
The  Three  Brothers 


Cloth,  i2mo,  %i,so 


"  '  The  Three  Brothers '  seems  to  us  the  best  yet  of  the  long  series  of  these 
remarkable  Dartmoor  tales.  If  Shakespeare  had  written  novels  we  can 
think  that  some  of  his  pages  would  have  been  like  some  of  these.  Here 
certainly  is  language,  turn  of  humor,  philosophical  I'lay,  vigor  of  incident, 
such  as  miglU  have  come  straight  from  Elizabeth's  day.  .  .  .  The  book 
is  full  of  a  very  moving  interest  and  is  agreeable  and  beautiful."  —  The 
New   York  Sun. 

PUBLISHED    BY 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
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AUG  1  3  194S 
JUI!2  0  195h 

JUM23  195!^ 
FEB  2      1954 
MAY  4     1956 
RTD.  MAY  4 

MAR  2  8 1961 

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SEP  6 


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7  :  8 '  0  '""^'''  1112 


DlCl 

1956      / 


D 


1954 


P.M. 

Il2f3l4!5l'> 


3  1978 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFOflRNI^ 

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LOS  Ar^GELES 

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